


Knock Your Heart out of Sync

by DragonBandit



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Multi, Please tell me if anything else needs tagging, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-18 21:36:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4721315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonBandit/pseuds/DragonBandit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Tevinter, “soulmark” may as well be a dirty word. Even for soporati it’s hidden, relegated to childhood games and disparaging talks about those barbarian Qunari, or the equally barbaric nations in the south. No, in Tevinter they were already born whole. No child in Tevinter was cursed to be half of what they should be. Forced to search for a half of themselves that they would, in all likelihood, never meet.</p><p>Like most of Tevinter propaganda, Krem had thought it to be complete and utter bullshit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wherein I write things just in time to go back to school. I am determined to finish this.  
> Borrows heavily from Heronfem's work [Oh, Wilderness Were Paradise Now](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4591650)
> 
> The minor ships in this fic are: Skinner/Dalish and Dorian/The Iron Bull.

Soulmarks are one of those pieces of Tevinter that’s in the background. Like mages and slaves, and the rigid class structure that does nothing but spit in Krem’s face. Like binding his breasts and lowering his voice and running away to the army when his mother yells at him for dooming them all to slavery.

He still remembers the last reason she’d had for him to marry--what had been his name again? Krem doesn’t remember. And, honestly, that had been the point. No soulmark, no quest of destiny to go find someone who was probably already dead or not even born. Why not marry a rich, handsome young man who kept looking down Krem’s dress? Not that his mother had included that last point. That one had been all Krem’s.

Krem remembers his father more though, the black butterfly that had sat just under his ear, barely visible. And the name under it that most often had been covered in thick makeup. Except when he’d been shaving. Krem had been six when he had first seen it, standing on his tiptoes to see his lathered up face in the mirror of his parents washroom. When Krem had asked what it was, his father had called it a mistake of the gods. Krem had not understood what that had meant at six years old.

He understands more when he is older. At least enough to thank whatever bastard is running the world for sparing him the mark, and the words. He has enough problems without having a soul mate to go and hunt for as well.

 

Krem is both relieved and confused about how easy it is to hide in the army. Bribe a doctor, insist that he bathes away from everyone else, invest in a really good binder, and no one knows the difference from him and the rest of the men.

Of course, it helps that as far as Krem can tell there’s not a single man here that isn’t hiding something or other. A lover, a marriage, a family. A mark.

For the first few months, Krem is too wrapped up in his own head to notice. Too convinced that this is all some fever dream he’s having and sooner or later he’s going to have to wake up. Go back home, put on a dress, marry the boy. Make his mother proud rather than his country.

It doesn’t happen. Of course it doesn’t happen.

There’s a war to be fought, because this is Tevinter and the empire is always expanding. And even when it isn’t there are border skirmishes and bandits and wild animals to contend with. They have to work as a unit if they want to stay alive long enough to make an issue of everyone’s personal problems.

Which, ultimately, is how Krem ends up with the nickname Troll, a regular spot in the mess hall, and a group of guys happy to call him part of their platoon. Honestly, Krem isn’t sure how this happened.

Fragile has a soul mark. He’s one of the poor bastards that’s decided Krem is man enough to bump shoulders with and spar together. It’s a curve of diamonds, wrapping up around his arm till it stops at his shoulder. Krem only sees it by accident; he swings his broadsword just a little too hard and it goes through Fragile’s guard like it’s nothing. Just travels straight on through till the blade’s cut a neat stripe through Fragile’s arm. It’s a shallow cut, thank the maker, thank’s to Krem realising just in time to glance the sword away, instead of towards, and Fragile dodging just enough for it to matter.

It’s not easy to bandage up your own arm, so Krem is the one that helps Fragile out of his shirt when they get to the medical tent. He’s the one who wipes a wet cloth up the red blood and black marks, then covers it all up again with clean linen cloth. Throughout the entire thing Fragile is tense, mouth turned down like he’s waiting for Krem to start something.

When they re-enact the whole thing for the rest of the platoon at supper, neither of them mention the soulmark. Krem gets a flagon of less than crappy beer, and a rare smile from Fragile as he hands it over. Later, he gets a considering, understanding look when he’s caught with his binder on.

Krem never says anything to deny what Fragile must be thinking, when he sees the thick leather vest strapped tight to Krem’s chest. Better this secret, than the one he actually has.  

 

Of course, even in the army there are fuck-asses that don’t know when to keep their mouths shut. Krem knows as soon as he meets the new physician that he’s in trouble. He’s a weasel man, all mustached and rat faced like he belongs in sewer. He doesn’t even have the decency to be a greedy rat. No, of all the people to be patriotic it has to be the one that Krem needs to like him.

Suffice to say, once Weasel man gets a look at Krem’s bits, he doesn’t like him at all. He’s going to report Krem. Going to send him home, and it’s like a nightmare except for the part where Krem can’t wake up.

He runs. Grabs his shit and gets the fade out of there before someone tries something. Course, when he needs it the most Krem has the worst luck. Three guys ambush him at the edge of the border. Krem can see what they plan to do to him in their eyes.

Maker, Maker save him. Andraste’s sodding Tits, Krem did not spend a month learning bits of Trade just to get fucking kidnapped by slavers who don’t even have the grace to--

Qunari, Krem’s mind supplies later when the slavers are on the ground and Krem’s being hauled to his feet by a guy with huge hands and blood running out of an eye socket.

“You alright?” the Qunari grunts.

“Me?” Krem says, “You’re asking if I’m alright?” He’s hysterical, knows it. But hell, he’s Tevene, just got run out of the army and has spent the last few minutes thinking he’s going to get raped.

The Qunari just laughs. Krem hits him.  

 

And then there are Chargers.

 

Of the Chargers there are 3 with marks. The Chief, Grim, and Dalish. It just comes up one day, between The Chief’s butchering of Tevene, Krem’s butchering of Trade, and all the little cultural mishaps that come from having two very different elves, three humans, one dwarf and a fucking Qunari all trying to be one happy family.

Krem had realised very quickly that the mercenary group thing was just a front for Bull to gather up as many mishap kids as he could. That had been made clear about the twelfth time Krem had been picked up and swung around by a drunk idiot as Dalish had cheered, and Stitches had muttered about injuries and Rocky had thrown beer that tasted like piss on all of them.

None of them care about the fact his pronouns don’t match his parts. Bull calls him a funny word in qunlat, and that’s the end of that. For the first time in his life, Krem’s okay to bathe in the river with everyone else with no fear of getting called out or worse.

He’s seen everyone naked. Everyone’s seen him naked. No one gives a shit. Krem’s still trying to get used to that.

 

Bull’s mark is this flurry of feathers running over his shoulder, down his arm and ending just before it should hit his collar. Krem thinks it’s Vitaar until the thing doesn’t wash off in the river with the rest of the poison paint.

Bull flexes when he catches Krem staring. Muscles rippling with the motion of it. “Like what you see?” Bull jokes. At least, Krem assumes it’s a joke, because him and Bull is a concept that Krem doesn’t want to think about. Ever.

“Didn’t think Qun had marks,” Krem says, nodding at the black feathers. “Don’t they go against your whole soulless, everyone is the same thing?”

Bull snorts, “Whoever’s teaching you ‘Vints The Qun needs to stop.” His hand goes up to trace the black marks, muttering something in Qunlat that Krem has given up ever being able to speak. The consonants just don’t sit in his head right enough for it. “Everyone has their name. And some people are lucky enough to have someone else's name as well.”

“You don’t have any name.” Krem knows as soon as it’s left his mouth that that was a tactless thing to say. Around them the other Chargers go quiet, still. Waiting for the axe to drop. A long moment of silence that drags through Krem like a knife.

“They don’t teach you much about marks in Tevinter do they?” Bull says, forced calm.

“Sorry Chief.” Krem turns his back. It’s a bad move maybe, but it gets Bull out of an awkward conversation at least, and Krem isn’t worried about getting ambushed like this. Not from Bull. He still jumps when Bull claps his back, and shakes him slightly. Bull’s huge but he moves silently, it’s not fair.

The move means Krem’s forgiven though. So he smiles, and focuses on getting the rest of him washed.

 

“It’s a gift from the gods for you?” Krem says incredulously.

Dalish traces her mark through her clothes, “Yeah. Isn’t it that for everyone?”

“I’ve always thought of them as curses,” Krem says.

Dalish raises her eyebrows, Vallaslin stark lines across her face in the firelight. “Sometimes you say the strangest things.” she says.

Krem shrugs. Thinks of a soldier with a man’s name on his arm. Of a father whose name didn’t belong to his wife. He stares into the campfire, and doesn’t say anything else.

 

Grim’s is a necklace around his neck. A woman’s name like pearls running through the edges. He’s Fereldan, and writes letters home to someone with the same name

It doesn’t matter how drunk they get him, Grim never talks about her, or tells how they met.

“Luck of the maker,” is the only thing he ever says about it.

Dalish and Krem have a bet. Dalish thinks his soulmatch is a whore. Krem is holding out for a princess.

 

“So why doesn’t the chief have a name on his marks?” Krem asks. He’s fighting off a horde of spiders, because Orlais, and Orlesian nobles and this is not even the strangest thing he’s done since becoming part of The Chiefs merry band of misfits.

“This again?” Skinner sighs. She’s back to back with him, daggers a flurry of well made steel and sharpness. “Why do you care so much?”

Krem hits a spider on it’s back with his maul, “It’s just weird, isn’t it? Having the marks and no name.”

“It just happens sometimes.”

“Yeah but why?” They switch places, Krem swinging his maul in a huge arc. Spider insides go everywhere, “Do you think Rocky’s got his trap done yet?”

“I don’t know, ask him yourself,” Skinner throws a bunch of caltrops into the fray. What she thinks they’ll do, Krem has no idea. As far as he can tell the spiders don’t notice poison at all, “Sometimes soulmates don’t want to think they’re soulmates.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“What? You Tevinters didn’t have anyone ending up with a soulmate who was, I dunno, a slave?”

Krem shrugs, “Met a man with another man’s name.”

Skinner makes a disgusted sound, though Krem is sure it’s more about the spider guts she’s managed to get in her eyes than what he’s said. “You are so weird.”

“Not disagreeing,” Krem smashes at the ground, a move Bull’s been teaching him when they have time for training in the mess of hunting, travelling and taking jobs that Krem’s life is now. “So no names?”

“God warn me if you’re going to hit the ground like that, it makes my bones jump,”  Skinner huffs, “It just happens, high and mighty noble gets an elf servant as their soulmate and thinks, fuck that. So the elf doesn’t get anything except the mark--Oh fuck that’s a big one”

“That doesn’t sound fair,” Krem says after a good moment of frenzied spider bashing, “So the Chiefs soulmate doesn’t like him just cause of his name?”

“That’s about it.”

“Huh.” Krem says. And then they’re running away because Rocky has finally  worked out how to set most of the manor on fire using four bags of flour and a candle.

Krem stands by his opinion that soulmarks are a cruel joke of the gods. Utterly pointless, and full of pain for everyone involved.

He says this, loudly, later when he’s full of terrible beer and everyone is more than a little bit past shitfaced, and The Chief has persuaded a pretty redhead into his tent.

There are moments in life, that you look back on, and wonder what the hell you were on, to tempt fate like that. To challenge whatever god was listening into making your life a bloody misery.

For Krem that moment will always be now.Or it would be, if Krem remembered any of these events after they happened. When he’d stood on a table and proclaimed to the entire bar that “Soulmarks are a shite arse waste of time, and I thank the maker every day for my lack of soulmate.”

Then he’d promptly fallen off the table and started snoring.  

 

When the burning first starts across Krem’s shoulder blades he ignores it. He’s had worse, and he has to learn Orlesian now as well as Trade, because the nobles keep sneering insults at him, and apparently the Chief thinks he should at least be able to talk back.

Bull is also the reason Krem doesn’t tell anyone. He just knows the great lug will bench him if he so much as hints that he’s getting sick. He’s not even getting sick, not really. He’s a soldier. He soldiers through pain. He’s not going to let anyone, not even Bull, treat him like some sort of invalid for a bloody cold.

Anyway, the Chargers need him. So Krem suck it up, steals a bit of elfroot and ignores the fever that’s slowly radiating out of his entire body.

He manages three days before he collapses spectacularly in front of an Orlesian noble Bull is fleecing for half of his fortune. One minute Krem is standing at attention looking properly intimidating next to Dalish and Grim, the next he’s swearing as his back fucking flares in agonising pain.

He doubles over, clutching at his shirt. Everything is so loud. So bright and chaotic. He hears screaming, wishes they would shut up before he realises that his throat is hurting, lungs are burning because that’s him making all the fucking racket. Krem remembers toppling forwards, not quite hitting the ground before he’s being supported by broad hands and around him there’s a cacophony of voices that he can’t quite make out what they’re saying.

Then everything goes dark.

 

When Krem comes to he’s in a room bigger than what he usually expects a house's size to be, and his head hurts like hell.

“Ow,” he says, blinking up blearily at the ceiling. It’s very fancy, for a ceiling. What with the way it’s been painted white and there are gold edges near the walls. At least, Krem assumes that’s gold, and not some weird manifestation of the splitting headache crawling it’s way down his temples.

“Welcome back,” someone says to Krem’s right.

“Hi Chief,” Krem turns his head, looking up at all the glory of shirtless Qunari lit up by the afternoon sun. “Where the hell am I?”

“Guest bedroom,” Bull says, he’s smiling. But it’s the same smile he gives to nobles just before he tells them how much this is going to cost them. It is not a smile to trust, “He insisted on it considering the momentous rite of passage you were going through.”

Krem waits for that sentence to make sense. When it makes it clear that it won’t, he tilts his head. “What?”

Bull laughs, belly deep. “When I got these I had a fever for three days,” Krem watches huge fingers trace the peacock feathers that make up his soulmark. he doesn’t understand what the point of this is. “I had two people nursing me back to health. It hurt like hell.”

He’s looking at Krem like he expects him to understand. Krem stares at him blankly. “Can we play make fun of the ‘Vint for not knowing basic shit when my head isn’t trying to kill me?”

“You’ve got a soul mark.” Bull says.

Krem doesn’t react for a long moment. Again, what he’s heard doesn’t make any sense. Krem doesn’t-- but there’s no reason for Bull to lie to him. What would even be the point? Which means that Krem has to believe him which means--

“Well,” Krem says. “Shit.”

 

“It’s like, wings,” Dalish says, staring at Krem’s back “If wings were made out of knives.”

“Knives,” Krem says.

“That’s what I’m seeing,” Dalish says with a huff, “I’ve seen weirder things on people.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Krem says. He’s already had that conversation with Bull. He hadn’t wanted to hear about The Chiefs conquests then, and he doesn’t want to hear a similar version from Dalish. “So who am I running around the whole world trying to find to share my life with then?”

“That’s not how they work.”

Krem rolls his eyes skywards, “Says the one running around with their soulmate after a lifetime of looking for them.”

“That’s different,”

“Yeah? How?”

Dalish traces up Krem’s back. pads of her fingers sweeping patterns that Krem is sure are following the black lines of his soulmark. “Skinner was an accident.”

Krem snorts. Understatement of the year, that is. One minute they’d been in the middle of getting the blood out of all their assorted laundry, the next minute Skinner had been tackling Dalish into the river because it turned out that Skinner’s real name was Floris, and it was her mark that Dalish had been hiding under the breast band of her small clothes for the past however many years. How that hadn’t been discovered earlier, Krem still isn’t sure.

“Who is it then?” he says, getting back to the matter at hand. And, really, the sole reason he let Dalish see his mark at all. There are many things Krem can do with a mirror. Reading is not one of them.

“Um,” Dalish says, after a pregnant pause.

“There isn’t one, is there?” He probably shouldn’t feel relieved. But he does anyways. Hey, it’s not like Krem asked to get marked.

“I didn’t say that,” Dalish protests. Her fingers trace the same place on Krem’s skin. Just under his right shoulder blade.

“So?”

“So I’m not a first and don’t know everything about these!” Dalish snips. She makes a disgusted noise, tracing the spot again, “You’ve got a C and an O and then there’s just this,” her hand slashes sideways across Krem’s back, “blur.”

“Blur,” Krem repeats, like an idiot.

“That’s what I said,”

“No one said anything about blurs.”

 

Bull doesn’t know what to make of the blur. Neither do Skinner, or Grim, or Rocky or Stitches. Which is about the time Krem throws his hands up and goes to find his bloody shirt. It’s just a mark, it doesn’t matter that his is broken. He wasn’t planning on searching for them in the first place.

It doesn’t matter that there’s half a name. The same way it wouldn’t have mattered if there had been a full name, or no name at all. Because Krem is whole. He doesn’t need a soulmate to complete him. Nor does he want one to!

Honestly, Krem is relieved.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Krem spends about a month steadfastly and determinedly not worrying about his soulmark before the sky explodes. Suddenly everyone is more concerned with the fact that there are demons falling out of the fucking sky than with the puzzle hidden under Krem’s shirt.

Thank the maker for that.

There’s a lot of wandering around Orlais, and then Fereldan, before Haven. And then not much time at Haven before the whole of the Inquisition is running for their lives because that is a dragon and a nightmare setting the entire village on fire.

After that, the walls of Skyhold are frankly a welcome relief. Though what an Elven strongholds doing in the middle of the mountains, no one has been able to decently explain. Least of all the Inquisitor, and the elven mage that had lead them most of the way there.

It annoys the hell out of Dalish, who mutters darkly about lost treasures and shemlen and things that Krem is sure are curses judging by the way her “bow” fizzles with electricity on some of them. That makes the Chief antsy, wary of the arcing sparks in a way that probably shouldn’t be funny except for the fact that Dalish is roughly half the size of the Chief.

Krem, Tevinter in his bones, looks at the sparks and thinks fleetingly of midwinter and festival games where he had to navigate hooks through charged metal. Chief swears when he mentions that. It’s one of the few times Krem gets to laugh at Bull, instead of the other way round.

At the end of it though, Skyhold has a tavern, and place big enough for bedrolls and tents. Which is more than could be said about the journey to it. That enough is cause for celebration. A proper Charger celebration. So cheap ale, cheaper wine that only Krem wants to drink, and generally making the tavern a much louder place to be.

Some of the braver recruits from Cullen’s ragtag army join in the boozing. Just enough of them that it stops being a Charger party and instead is more of a Charger-led party. The difference of which is difficult to actually put into words but has something to do with the way Skinner is eyeing everyone that gets a bit too close to her, and the way Grim has actually managed to trick a group of poor, innocent soldiers to play Cripple Mr Onion with him.

Krem leans back on the chair he’s managed to liberate from a corner, and grins into a mug of wine that tastes like something died in it while it was fermenting. From the other side of the tavern, he hears Dorian echo the sentiment, except with a lot more fancy words added in.

Krem still isn't’ sure what to make of Dorian, but as far as he can tell the Altus isn’t too high and mighty underneath all that bluster. And the Chief at least seems entertained with him. Krem is sure it’s going to end in tears for someone. But he’s keeping that opinion to himself

“Words in forgotten places, waiting, wanting. A voice dropped into a whispered yes that never quite comes.”

Krem starts. The mug of wine slipping out of his fingers onto the floor, forgotten as he turns his head up to stare up at a boy that Krem swears on the Divine’s holy balls had not been sitting on the table a few seconds ago. The boy, blue eyes wide and staring distantly out at the tavern, blinks owlishly.

“I’m not a ghost,” he says. “Why is that what people always think first?”

Krem--stares. Taking in a mess of ragged leathers, swinging legs and a truly ridiculous hat, and this is coming from someone who has spent the better part of five years in Orlais, covering dirty blond hair.

“Hi,” Krem says, because he has manners.

“Hello,” The boy says. His eyes flicker, over the tavern and then bore straight into Krem’s soul.

“I’m Krem,” he says, mostly because there is a script here, and swearing in Tevene has never made Krem any friends.

“I know,” The boy says. “you’re with The Iron Bull.”

This, Krem is at least used to. He leans back, tipping the chair onto its back legs and the frame against the wall. Smiles a grin that Dalish says is suave, and Rocky says is shit-eating.

“Yeah? What else you know about me?”

The boy blinks. Slow and sure. “I don’t think you want me to answer that.“

“Does that mean there’s rumours about me? I’m flattered.”

The boy hums noncommittally, eyes dropping from Krem’s.

In one town the locals had thought Krem had been part of Bulls imaginary harem. The one across had decided that all of the Chargers were part of some sort of cult, and then there had been the other mercenary group who had taken one look at Dalish’s bow and Krem’s complexion before spouting off things about apostates. Now there had been a group of people who didn’t know how to take a hint.

Frankly, Krem’s interested to know what the Inquisition thinks of his little band. Better find out now, before Bull starts making friends and getting attached if they have to pack up and scarper at short notice.

“So? You got any rumours for me? What have they been saying about me enough that you know my name?”

The boy’s leg swings where it hangs from the table he’s sat on. He doesn’t look at Krem, and raises a hand to bite at his thumb, “The soldiers mutter spy behind their hands. Waiting for a mutiny with every smile. Shared looks across a training field, feathered cape heavy on shoulders not broad enough to bear it. Wonder if he’s ever worn it with nothing underneath…” The boy trails off, ducking his head until Krem can only see the top of the hat.

Krem’s head tilts sideways and he slowly leans back forwards to set all four of the chairs legs back on the ground. He feels like he’s too drunk for this, with the knowledge that he hasn’t even drunk enough wine to get anything more than pleasantly tingly at the edges.

“The soldiers think I’m--” Krem cuts himself off, not believing what the jumble of words means when taken at face value. “What really?”

The boy nods. Krem can’t help the bubble of laughter that spills out of him. “You have to be joking,”

“I don’t know how to,” The boy says earnestly. His head comes back up to look at Krem, “You don’t feel like you’re angry.”

“Angry? For idiots thinking I’m--” he snorts with laughter, “Definitely not angry.”

“You’re the first one who hasn’t been.”

Krem’s still laughing, “They obviously don’t have a sense of humour then,” he says. And reaches over to tug the boy into a one armed hug. It only lasts a second before Krem lets go.The kid’s all bones. Skinny as a rail under the baggy clothes. And just as stiff as soon as Krem’s arm had wrapped around the narrow hips.

He’s staring at Krem, confusion obvious in the set of his mouth. Krem may be a little more drunk than previously thought. Not the first time that’s happened.

He leans back again, tipping up the chair legs. “You know I never got your name,” Krem says.

The boy blinks, “I didn’t know you wanted it.”

“Does that mean you’re not going to tell me?” And it’s suddenly important now, more than just manners. He has to know the name.

“Cole,” the boy says, “I-- You can call me Cole.” He looks down. “You won’t remember me though. That’s alright, I’m used to it.”

Krem’s eyes narrow, and his back itches. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Cole shakes his head. Not answering.

Krem is about to ask again when there’s a commotion on the other side of the bar, which of course involves Skinner. And Dalish and Rocky, and oh hell even Stitches is fingering the knife that’s always hidden under his cloak.

“Got to go,” he says absently, already swinging his way across the throng of people to see what all the fuss is about this time.

The next time Krem looks at the table where he was sitting, several minutes later and with the unsteady alliance between the Chargers and Inquisition soldiers back together, Cole is gone.

Krem shrugs, and goes to see if the ale here is any better than the wine.

It isn’t.

 

Skyhold is a dump. Decades, or maybe centuries, of dirt and grime and dust in every corner of what was once an impressive fortress. It’s going to take an army to get the place sorted. Luckily for the Inquisition, an army is what they have.

The Chief is busy running around with the Inquisitor, and Stitches is making sure that no one else dies on his watch. Krem has three choices: Stay in the Tavern like a bum, get conscripted into mending an entire holds worth of clothes and linens and sheets, or pick up a hammer and start clearing out rooms.

Krem has always hated mending sheets.

He’s assigned heavy lifting in one of the wings that no one else has really gotten to yet. It’s mostly a one man job; everyone else is trying to get the essential bits done. Wings that can be turned into bedrooms are unfortunately not that needed when there’s enough space for a village of tents inside of Skyhold’s walls.

Krem is starting to think that he’s not really trusted with the important things. Their loss, he shrugs, surveying his task with narrowed eyes.

The roof is caving in. There’s a birds nest in the upper walls and one for the rats somewhere judging by the droppings. The curtains are moulding, as are all the sheets and beds in the rooms on either side of the corridor. What were once rugs are now havens for all sorts of creepy crawlies that Krem really does not want to go near without very heavy boots. And everything's covered with a thick layer of dust that makes Krem’s nose itch.

On second thought maybe mending wouldn’t have been so bad.

Krem however has never been a quitter. So he just grunts, and goes to find a mop. (the fact that he has 20 royals with Rocky on how fast he can clean the place out has nothing to do with it)

 

“Shit!” Krem hisses, as the heavy beam he’s been trying to lift for the past hour lands heavily on the ground two inches from Krem’s foot. He resists the urge to snarl at it.

He just needs to get the thing out of the way. Into a corner somewhere, or next to the wall. As opposed to where it is right now: right in the middle of the hallway. It used to be part of the ceiling as far as Krem can tell, one of the pieces meant to be load bearing. As a result it’s fucking heavy. He’d ask for help if it weren’t for the fact that everyone else is off doing more important things.

Krem stoops to grab the beam again. All he has to do is drag it. It shouldn’t be this hard. It’s just a heavy block of wood as thick as his head that’s smells like it’s rotted to the core and is covered in bits of roof that it brought down with it.

His muscles scream at him when he tries to pull it up. arms and legs and back feeling like they’re being pulled apart with the strain. He stumbles backwards, one two steps, before he has to drop the beam again.

This time it does land on his foot. Krem swears an oath in Tevene, pulling his foot out and curling fingers around the wounded appendage. Feels swollen, under the leather of his boot. No fucking shit, he thinks. It doesn’t feel like anything’s broken though.

Krem thanks whatever god is listening for that. He’d never hear the end of it if he had to explain to Stitches that he managed to break all the bones in his foot by dropping something heavy on it. That feels like the type of story that would make Stitches look to the sky and mutter about handcuffs, and chairs, and children who should know better.

But that doesn't solve the problem that he still needs to move the beam. There just isn’t any way around it. There’s junk under and around it, not to mention the fact that every time there’s a strong enough gust of wind the hole in the roof lets in even more junk for Krem to clear up.

Krem scratches at the back of his head. “Maybe I should ask for help,” He muses. He grimaces, “Bull’s running around Orlais again, and everyone else has got their own bits to clear up.”

The beam offers no help. Krem’s foot hurts like hell, as does the other assorted bits of him just waiting till he gets in a chair to offer up their varied complaints. Time to take a break. And see if he can steal some ointment from Stitches without telling him what Krem needs it for.

On his way out Krem kicks at the beam with his good foot. Now both of them hurt.

 

Someone has been going through his wing. It takes Krem about a week to notice it. That sometimes the footprints through the dust don’t match his sturdy boots. He’s tried sweeping and mopping, but there’s always a new layer on the stone floors the next day.  That bits of junk keep moving around the place until there’s a neat pile of stuff stacked in one of the corners. Sure, Krem started moving things like that, but he’s sure that the last time he’d thrown something on it the pile hadn’t been anywhere near that big.

“You’re not helping me clean, are you?” he mentions to the Chargers later at supper.

Skinner gives him a look.“Yeah, between my new garden job, rat hunting and training idiots to shoot, I’m dropping in to clear up barracks we’re not even going to be staying in.”

“Okay, stupid question I know,” Krem says. He leans back on the boxes that mark this area as being Charger Territory, as opposed to the other side of the box that belongs to some of the newer Inquisition recruits.

“If someone’s helping you the bet’s off,” Rocky says through a mouthful of meat. “It doesn’t count if you finish fast when you’ve got twice the hands working on it.”  

Krem frowns, “I don’t know if anyones helping me.”

“But you think someone is,” Dalish says. She’s curled up into Skinner's side, completely worn out judging by they way her shoulders droop down like she doesn’t even have the small bit of energy needed to keep them straight.

“Someone’s messing around there,” Krem shrugs, “It’s probably nothing. What’s up with you?”

Dalish groans.

“She’s getting hounded into helping with the magicky things,” Skinner fills in, wiggling her fingers mysteriously, “healing with Stitches mostly. Sometimes heavy lifting.”

“I’m not even a mage,” Dalish says, “I can’t heal worth a damn!”

“Got that right,” Stitches snarks, “You almost let that man bleed to death.”

“The tourniquet was fine until he moved.”

“It’s meant to be fine even when they do.”

Dalish makes another wordless groaning sound, “You can show me how to do it properly tomorrow.”

“I’d better, if they keep throwing you at me.” Stitches grumbles good naturedly. He’s been trying to teach the lot of them basic healing since he joined. It’s never managed to stick. “The potatoes are done.”

There’s silence for a bit as everyone fights for the best of the sorry looking vegetables. There hasn’t been chance for things to grow in Skyhold yet. All the vegetables are from whatever could be grabbed at Haven before the mountain fell on it. All the good ones were eaten months ago.

Krem ends up with one of the more burned ones. Skin browned and in places blackened from the fire. It makes a satisfying crunching noise when he bites into it. It’s really sad that he’s able to do that. Maker, they have to find bigger vegetables soon. And spices. Krem misses spices.

“Do you think that someone’s trying to take the piss?” Skinner says after she’s passed her portato to Dalish. “About your patch of the hold,” she nods to Krem.

Krem blinks, “Don’t think so. They’ve not done anything horrible. Anyway, what would be the point?”

“Makes us look bad.” Skinner says darkly.

“Not every human is out to get you,” Krem says, the start of what is by now an overly rehearsed argument. It’s gotten steadily worse since they’ve had to be so close to the Inquisition. Skinner is twitchy and a twitchy Skinner is a dangerous one.

“Well someone’s messing with you,” she says, “And it isn’t us. Who else would want to get in your shit?”

“I don’t know. It’s why I asked.”

“It’s the Commander,” Dalish says airily, “He’s wanting to have relations with Krem.” she bursts into a fit of giggles, which everyone else joins in on. That rumour is still hilarious, Krem doesn’t even care that he’s technically the butt of it.

“I’d prefer to be wooed by someone with more curves than the commander has,” Krem says. “Or who actually showed their face.”

“He’s shy,” Dalish says. She yawns, stretching back against Skinner, “How were you planning to find out who it was anyway?”

“Hadn’t gotten that far yet. I only noticed a few days ago.”

“If you were an Orlesian noble you’d be dead,” Stitches remarks.

“It’s good I’m not an Orlesian noble then,”  

“Smoke em out.” Grim says, from out of the shadows of the tent he’s been wreathed in.

“Huh?” Krem says, squinting into the darkness.

“Smoke em out. Wait for em to appear and then,” Grim makes a slicing gesture across his throat.

“I don’t think I’m going to kill them,”

Grim doesn’t answer. Done with words for the day. Possibly done with words for the week, it’s always hard to tell with Grim.

The conversation flows to Rocky, and whatever he’s doing with all the bits he’s squirrelled away this time. He’s on demolitions, where he should be. And running through all the old areas that tend to be flooded, or caved in, or both.

Krem only listens with half an ear. He keeps thinking back to his wing, and whoever it is that’s sneaking around up there. There must be some way to find out who it is. If only so Krem can thank them for helping out.

That, and work out why the hell they’ve been messing around there in the first place. No matter how Krem looks at it it doesn’t make any sense. He’s been assigned this wing because it’s out of the way, and the requisitions officer doesn’t trust him with any of the more important bits. Out of all the places to be an invisible helper, why pick Krem’s neck of Skyhold?

 

It takes Krem a few days to plan it all out. Not because he’s bad at that sort of thing but more because he ends up being stupidly busy again. He’s a road builder, a scout, a messenger. Anything that can be done by a half-wit with nothing else to do.

Then of course there’s the fact the Commander needs help training all the new blood that’s been throwing themselves at the Inquisition lately. A few of them are decent with a sword and shield. Most are terrible. Krem tends to end up with the ones that really need help.

Help of the “I’m not sure how you’ve managed to not cut your head off with your own sword yet especially since you can’t hit the training dummy let alone another person” sort.

The Commander had looked particularly pleased to see Krem that day. Krem should have known it had been for nefarious reasons.

Then next time he gets to his wing Krem’s sure it’s being messed with. The pile is even bigger, and the beam that has been the bane of Krem’s existence has been moved. Not enough to be useful, but enough to be noticeable.

It’s enough that Krem decides to eat in the wing. Camp out till his mystery helper shows themselves. If he has to he’ll sleep here, it can’t be any worse than the tent he’s got up on the fringe of the small town all the tents of the Inquisition have managed to make within Skyholds walls. At least here he has walls around him, if not a roof above his head.

Thinking about that though, is not helping Krem clean. He sighs heavily, and goes back to clearing out the new debris that’s fallen through the hole in the roof in his absence.

The day drags on. Krem cleans, drags anything he can lift into the corners, tries to dust the ceiling and gives up when he can’t reach high enough. Morning turns to afternoon with no appearance of Krem’s mystery helper. He’s about to give it up as a lost cause, after a long break where Krem digs into a lunch he brought earlier. More sad potatoes.

But then when he’s packing up the supplies that he’s sharing with the rest of the restoration team, Krem hears a noise behind him. It’s just a little one, the feel of shifting plaster quiet enough that for a moment Krem thinks it’s the wind. But then it happens again.

Krem stills. The way Dalish taught him in the forests to stop the fennecs from running at the sounds of his breathing. Slow, deep breaths. A measured head movement--careful, can’t show that he’s noticed till he works out if they’ll scarper on him or not.

There. Someone dropping plaster on the pile in the corner of the corridor. They’re either facing away from Krem entirely or sideways. Either way it gives Krem enough leeway to get himself turned around enough to finally see his mystery helper.

A boy, tall and slim in dirty leathers. Turned just so that Krem can only just see a brush of blonde hair curled against a pale cheek under a broad brimmed hat.

Krem recognises them. It takes a moment to find the name. It’s been weeks since that meeting in the tavern, and Krem’s seen neither hide nor hair of the boy since. He’d practically forgot that he existed.

“Cole,” he says, half a question though he’s sure it’s right.

The boy looks up, startled. Blue eyes wide with shock as he stares at Krem in that soul-searching way that Krem remembers from last time.

“You can see me,” Cole says. He frowns, “You shouldn’t be able to see me.”


	3. Chapter 3

Cole stares at Krem. Absently he drops the bit of plaster in his hands onto the pile. “You shouldn’t be able to see me.”

He frowns, gaze falling onto the broken stone tiles of the floor. There are old hurts there. A battle fought and lost, and also won. Too faint for Cole to hear it more than the whispers of people long gone now.

He can feel the weight of Krem’s stare at his side. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Krem says, Cole chases the confusion there, just for a second before he stops himself.

“Task too big for one man. See how long it takes him to give up. He won’t--Everyone else is busy and he’s sure that eventually the world will listen to him.” Cole’s left hand raises to knock against his breastbone, “It won’t. It doesn’t. Static sticking stuck nothing ever listens here. It’s alright. I listen. I can help. Quiet,  creeping in the shadows. He won’t notice me.”

Krem is still confused. Raising off him in fragmented waves. Cole gestures around the room, a spin that sends him facing in the opposite direction. Staring out down the length of the hall. “You needed help. I can help.”

“Thank you,” Krem says. Out of the corner of Cole’s eyes he smiles,  it’s like sunrise, “I think.”

“Possibly,” Cole says. He stoops down to pick up more of the mess. The echoes of the past whispering to Cole. Skyhold likes talking, even the parts of it that are broken. There used to be old magic here.

Krem picks up more of the mess next to him, “You still haven’t really told me why you’re sorry for helping,” he says. He’s looking down at Cole now. Can’t see the way Cole’s eyes narrow and his mouth bends into a frown.

He clutches at the garbage in his hands, stands up and takes it to the pile before picking up more near the other side of the room. Back to the pile again.

It’s hard to feel the hurts. When they’re not hard and held tight enough to twist and tangle into knots. When they aren’t really hurts at all but the memory of them that were forgotten long after they happened.

“It was meant to be just you.” Cole says slowly. He can’t get any more than that. Can’t explain and it hurts, the words caught in his throat like the sweets he stole once because he just had to know why they made everyone who ate them so happy.

Krem chuckles. It’s not the reaction Cole’s expecting. Krem never reacts like Cole’s expecting.

“Well I did have a bet to win,” he says ruefully, “You’re not going to tell on me with Rocky are you?”

Cole drops plaster onto the pile and he looks up, to find playful eyes far closer than he expects them to be. Something in his stomach turns over. He slowly leans backwards. Putting more space between him and words that aren’t quite said. “No. I won’t.”

“Then you have nothing to be sorry for.” Krem’s hand is heavy on Cole’s back. A hit that says friends instead of what slaps and strikes usually shout. “So how much are you willing to help me out?”

“As much as you want me to.”

Krem straightens up. His smile is sunlight on cool stone. Noon heat warming them for the lizards and the snakes and cats to rest on. Cole’s smile is more the cracks in cobblestones at the market. It doesn’t quite fit on his face.

“Well we better get started then right?”

“Right.” Cole answers.

 

* * *

 

 They fall into a routine. In the mornings Krem is with the Chargers until Cullen needs help. He always does these days, it’s frankly a little annoying but it’s not the Commanders fault that volunteering for the Inquisition is suddenly so popular.

If Bulls there, Krem gets knocked around for a bit by a hulking Qunari in the name of training. If not then he and Skinner run through their manoeuvres and laugh at Dalish struggling with her borrowed bow. Sometimes Grim is there, or Rocky and on one particularly memorable occasion Stitches had managed to stun the entire courtyard speechless when he’d picked up a polearm and used it to knock every unlucky recruit who’d decided to go toe to toe with the healer onto his ass.

Then it’s lunch at the tavern, almost always bread and cheese. Sometimes meat if they get lucky. All the real food’s been saved for the nobles that are bleeding gold into the place. Technically the Chargers are meant to pay for themselves anyways, but it’s hard to find a decent place to buy meat rolls at the top of a mountain.

The fact that they’ve been getting IOU’s instead of actual gold has something to do with it too.

 

Afternoon leads Krem back to the wing. He’s gotten into the habit of grabbing a piece of bread for his new companion. The kids way too thin. Sometimes Krem’s sure he can see ribs and the stark bones of his spine when Cole’s shirt rides up. Not that it does often, but enough that Krem’s started to notice. And wince in sympathy at what’s revealed.

He remembers seeing people that thin. In Tevinter. Slaves.

Sometimes Cole doesn’t come. Busy doing things more important than helping Krem obviously. Though what that is Krem doesn’t know. No one else seems to know anything about him. Krem’s asked around a few times, just to see if he could find Cole outside of those few hours spent struggling with garbage in the wing.

None of the soldiers had known anything. Or the servants, a fact that was privately terrifying. Servants were meant to know everything. That’s how they worked. It was just creepy that none of them seemed to know about Cole.

“They’re afraid of me,” A voice says by Krem’s ear.  

Krem does not yelp.

“Hello Cole,” He says, spinning around from where he’s been scrubbing dust off the wall to take in the boy standing behind him like he’s been there for hours. “What’s this about people being afraid of you?”

“Silent staring across a room. He wasn’t there before. Footprints in the dust that don’t match my own. Ghost. Too thin, too wild. He doesn’t belong here.” Cole shrugs, gaze dropping to the floor,  “I make them forget. It’s better like that.”

“For you?”

Cole’s head shakes. Krem waits for an answer that doesn’t come. For a moment he’s just left there, staring at Cole awkwardly. At least this time he isn’t getting stabbed in the heart by pale, hunted eyes.

He turns back to the wall, wet rag swiping up at stone. Cole settles next to him, own cloth held between slim fingers. He’s not quite close enough to be touching, but if Krem reached out, there would easily be a shoulder in his grasp.

There’s soon a patch of clean stone amidst the dark grey dirt around it. Krem’s cloth is disgusting. Covered in dirt and grime and other things that Krem doesn’t really want to think about longer than absolutely necessary.

It takes all of the day to clean the wall. Long sweeps of the rag up and down where Krem can reach, and then a little above when Cole stands on his toes. They will need a ladder to get to the ceiling. Or poles to attach the rags to. Another job for later when there is resources and space for it.

Above them somebody is finally working on the roof. The sounds of men reaching down from the high ceiling above. It echoes, reaches across the room. Becomes little more than background noise. Though if Krem wanted to he could tune into it. Hear whatever the gossip is.

There’s no point to do that. He’s happy here. Working through the mess left by who knows. Get it ready for nobles stupid enough to make the trek up here. More than Krem would have thought. And with them come servants. More mouths to feed, more bodies to house.

Krem is so glad he’s not in charge of the housekeeping for Skyhold. It must be a nightmare.

He shrugs, and scrubs harder at the wall where there’s a particularly nasty stain.

“Krem,” Cole says into the silence.

Krem looks at him, where the other is staring up at where there used to be a hole, and now there is a thick sheet of canvas across it. In Cole’s arms are more bits of plaster.

“Yeah?” Krem says.

“You aren’t afraid of me.”

Krem smiles, “You aren’t that scary.”

Cole hums, “You don’t forget me either. Even when I think you should.”

“You’re pretty memorable Cole,” Krem laughs, “I don’t know anyone else around here who wears such ridiculous hats.”

“I like my hats.” Cole raises his hands to feel at the brim of it, “Why does no one else like them?”

Krem tries to hide a smile. No way is he going to discuss fashion. He may be Tevinter but he’s not that bad!

 

* * *

 

Cole stares at the food warily. He looks up at Krem from under the brim of his hat. “Yes?”

“It’s for you,” Krem says, again, “You’re way too thin.”

Cole pokes at his stomach, “I’ve always been this size.”

“More reason to eat it.” Krem thrusts the sandwich at Cole again. He smiles when Cole recoils away from it. It’s almost endearing. “It’s not going to hurt you.”

“I know that,” he shakes his head, eyes huge.

“Then what’s wrong with it?” Krem looks at the offering. So it’s not the best sandwich in the world, but it’s better than some of the things Krem’s put in his mouth over the years. The sandwich at least, isn’t moving.

Cole’s face goes through a variety of expressions. Brow furrowing and lip curling in a caricature of something Krem can’t quite place but looks a little bit like when Rocky found a new mould growing in the mess of alchemical equipment he lugs around everywhere. Equal parts fascinated, confused and disgusted.

Krem is starting to feel a little insulted about his sandwich making skills now. He frowns, withdrawing the offering, “Alright then. Could have just said you didn't want it.”

“No!” Cole says, sudden outburst as he grabs Krem’s outstretched wrist. “I did that wrong, let me try again.”

“Try again?”

“Yes. I need to fix it. You’re hurt now. Scraped at the insides where you don’t notice except in the dark. Please forget.”

His eyes are huge circles in his face. Krem looks at him. The hand still held around the wrist feels like it’s branding him with it’s heat.

“Alright,” Krem says slowly, “forgotten.”

There's a moment of still silence. Cole looks at him, “No,” he says “you haven't.” he drops Krem’s hand, but his arm stays in the air, reaching out towards Krem still. Krem looks at it. See’s dirt and plaster covering dirty hand wrappings and pale fingers. The fingers take the slab of bread and meat held in Krem’s hand.

“Thank you,” Cole says.

“No problem,” Krem says. He feels like his hand is on fire. He stuffs it into his pocket, out of something else to do. He turns around, trying to think about plaster chunks and whether it’s worth finding a ladder to clean more of the dirt off the walls or not.

Out of the corner of his eye Cole takes a single bite out of the sandwich.

 

* * *

 

“So what brought you to the Inquisition, Cole?”

“Here is where I could help.”

“No other reason than that?”

“What other reasons would there be?”

“I dunno. To meet girls?”

“Is that why you joined the Inquisition Krem?”

“Ah… No.”

“No. Demons everywhere the sky split open like a nightmare. Only one man only one army. We could do so much more but how? Eyes on banners slowly appearing everywhere. There. That’s where we should go.”

“....Alright then.”

 

“So Cole, where are you from?”

“What do you mean where am I from?”

“Like before all this, before Skyhold.”

“I was in Haven.”

“No, not like that.”

“I don’t understand, Krem.”

“Well, where were you born?”

“I don’t think I was born.”

“Oh come on. everyone’s born. Even mysterious people like you.”

“...Alright. I was born in the Spire.”

“Spire. That's the mage circle in Val Royeaux, yeah?”

“Yes.”

“So you’re a mage?”

“No.”

“One of your parents?”

“No.”

“Sometimes you really don’t make any sense.”

 

* * *

 

“No don’t put that there,” Cole says

Krem looks down at the chunk of stone in his hands, “Why not?”

“That’s the wrong place for it.” He reaches forward, stepping into Krem’s personal space to pluck the tiling away. He’s so close, so suddenly there that Krem can’t help the startled breath. “It should be here,” Cole continues as he walks away.

“What's so special about there?”

“Cole looks at the ceiling. He’s crouched on the floor, long fingers slotting the stone into a hole that Krem hadn’t even realised was there. “Before the sky was sundered all this was whole. The stone remembers where it should be.” He says it in the breathy voice that Krem has started to privately think as ‘reading the air.’ after a fairy tale he’d read when he was seven.

There had been a boy in the tale that could see things that others couldn’t. It’s easier to think that’s what Cole is doing instead of the very creepy, very privacy invading, reading of Krem’s thoughts.

“I don't mean to do that,” Cole says.

Krem resists the urge to groan. (He doesn’t find it endearing, he does not.)

Cole smiles, and hums happily.

 

* * *

 

The thing about Cole, is that no one else can see him. Or remember him after they leave the room.

“You’re not a figment of my imagination, right?” Krem asks after he finishes arguing with a builder about plaster who had looked around the room and remarked that Krem had a done a good job considering he was all alone. Cole had been standing next to Krem at the time.

“No.”

Krem grunts.

 

* * *

 

“Do you know any magic that could make someone invisible and forgettable?”

Dalish looks at Krem like he’s insane “No. Why?”

“No reason.”

 

* * *

 

And then there’s the other thing that Cole does.

When Krem wakes up he already knows it's going to be a bad day. His shoulders are tensed during practice, posture all wrong for keeping him on his feet while lugging around a maul. Something that Bull shows easily by dumping Krem on his ass after a particularly shoddy block.

“What got in your breeches and died?” Bull asks with a frown, reaching down to Krem.

From his place in the mud, Krem glares at the proffered hand. He doesn’t take it when he hauls himself out of the muck. He hates autumns. When the rain is sleeting it down and everything is covered in a fine coat of dirt.

Bull shrugs, drawing the hand back, “You can’t let your guard down like that,” he says, “I almost sent you flying.”

“Sod my guard,” Krem says, just managing to hold in a snarl.

The rest of practice doesn’t go any better. By the end of it Krem is covered in mud. His usual serviceable armour waterlogged and disgusting. It’s inside as well; water making everything down to his smalls cold and damp and awful.

The fact that everyone else is in the same position is not that much of a consolation.

Cullen’s recruits are in the bathhouse with Krem and the rest of the Chargers make their way over there. Of course they are, both groups have morning practice, as Krem knows well now thanks to hours of being used as a teacher for the more… wild recruits. The sound of men and women fills the wooden hut that surrounds the heated spring that is the hidden joy of Skyhold.

The noise makes Krem stiffen. He can’t do this. Not today. Not around people who don’t already know that Krem has more than himself tucked into his breeches. There are some rumours that Krem doesn’t want to add fuel to.

“Fuck this,” he mutters, intent on going to the tents to at least get clean clothes. His hands itch for a needle and thread. Except they don’t, because Krem knows already that no matter what he tries to make today, it will end up ruined in frayed fabric, snagged thread and misplaced stuffing.

His tent has fallen over. His pack has managed to fill itself with damp. Of course it has. Krem hates the Autumn.

Behind his eyes there’s the familiar pricking sensation of tears that he refuses to shed, will not shed. He’s not a child. He’s a grown man. One who can pick up the soiled pieces of his life, walk through muck and mud in disgusting armour without thinking about more than that he needs to find somewhere dry soon if he wants to salvage most of it.

His feet take him to the wing. Where the roof has been fixed now with more than cloth and hope. It’s almost warm here, thick stone walls keeping away the cold. The chill still wraps up Krem’s legs though, settling into his shoulders thanks to his soaked clothes, metal armour and the stone floor his boots are not insulating against.

He sighs ruefully, picking at fused leather straps in an effort to get everything off. No need to stand around in wet clothes, even if the thought of being naked where someone could just walk in is enough to make his hackles raise. At the very least he needs to get the armour off. No point wearing it now, far away from the training field.

Soon he’s freezing his ass off in the thin linen coverings he wears under his armour. Soaked through, and even if they weren’t they aren’t that suitable to wear without something over them at the best of times.

“Fuck,” Krem says to himself, and can’t help the way it comes out slightly choked.

“Wet running through everything. Can’t go home ever again.” Cole says to Krem’s right. Krem can’t even bring himself to be a little embarrassed that he didn’t notice the man sneak up on him. Or maybe he’s just gotten used to the comings and goings of Cole, always as strange and sudden as Cole himself.

“Hello Cole.”

“Hello.” Cole says. He’s holding something in his arms, a thick bundle of grey fabric that spills out of the loose hold Cole has on it, “I brought you a blanket.”

He holds it out to Krem, looking down expectantly.

“...Thanks,” Krem says after a moment, wondering vaguely who told Cole that he would need anything. He’s only been around the Chargers today, and none of them know about Cole. Krem thinks anyway. It’s hard to tell when as far as Krem can work out he’s the only one that even remembers the kid after they’ve stopped talking.

“I heard you,” Cole’s gaze is earnest, unblinking when Krem meets it with startled eyes, “You’re very hurt today,”

“Yeah well, I got knocked on my arse into the mud.” Krem drapes the blanket over his shoulders, pulling it tight against him.

“No, not that.”

“Then what?” Krem asks, and then regrets it instantly. He’s learned now that saying that to Cole is the best way to have bad memories thrown at him. He turns his head away, already bracing for words that always hurt more than they really should.

“I’m sorry,” Cole says instead. “I’m not making this better.”

“Sometimes there isn’t a way to make it better,” Krem shrugs. He tries smiling, it doesn’t quite fit on his face.

“You don’t have to be feel guilty about it,” Cole says.

Krem breathes, slow through his nose. “Yeah. Alright.”

“Varric says that when I get wet I should have a bath,” Cole says, like he doesn’t have Krem’s heart in the palm of his hand. Beating and bleeding out in the horrible way that means Krem might just let him.

He doesn’t even know what Cole is. A mage? A friend? Someone Krem is inexplicably drawn to and he can’t work out why. Why Cole keeps seeking him out, why Krem keeps letting him.

“Bath’s full,” Krem says, getting back to the conversation he’s actually having, instead of the confusing tangle that his head’s made up of right now.

“I know one that isn’t.”

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

“Well this is...nice,” Krem says tentatively. Cole has led him up and down a long, twisting series of passages that Krem swears he has never been in before. Though considering Skyhold that isn’t as odd as it would have been in some of the other places Krem has stayed in. The place is a goddamn maze.

The chamber Krem’s been taken to is small. Barely big enough for the bath and washbasin it’s holding. The place is remarkably clean though, so someone must have been using it recently.

“Vivienne,” Cole answers the unsaid question, “She doesn’t like people watching her either.”

Krem nods, the feeling of having his thoughts read sending a fissure of discomfort down his spine. It’s a familiar discomfort now. Krem isn’t sure what that says about him.

Cole kneels next to the tub, fiddling with the taps. Krem can't place the scrolling script that curls up the sides of the elegant metalwork. It’s nothing like the usual dwarven craftwork Krem’s seen in the houses of Orlesian nobles.

Steam rises from the water pooling into the tub. Whatever the builder of this place, they at least knew how to pamper a poor, tired mercenary.

“Is Vivienne going to mind us being here?” Krem asks. He doesn’t know much about Vivienne, save for the fact she looks exactly like the nobles that the Chargers used to make fun of out of earshot, and exactly the type of person to guard a private bath with her life.  

“The bath will help,” Cole says. He’s staring into the slowly raising water. Seemingly transfixed.

“Not what I asked,” Krem laughs and drops to sit next to Cole, back resting against the tub, “Have you taken me to some private inner sanctum that’s going to end up with my balls frozen off if we get caught?”

There’s a lull as Krem waits for Cole to answer. When he looks up at the other man Cole’s expression is distant, seeing things Krem can’t access.

“Finally a place I can relax. Private, peaceful. A rune on the door to keep out the riff raff. Soaps and powders arranged just so. This place belongs to me.”

Krem winces, exactly what he thought then. “Guess we shouldn’t stay here too long.”

“Perhaps.”

Really Krem should say that they should go now, but the bath is calling to him. Can’t he just have this one good thing in an otherwise terrible day?

“Warm water sluicing over old hurts. Soothing and strengthening. Mud and pain washing away with the rain that isn’t rain.”

“...Yeah.” Krem says. The last of his good mood vanishing.  

“I’ve made you uncomfortable again,” Cole tilts himself away from Krem slightly.

“A little,” Krem admits, “I don’t like you going through my head.”

“I don’t mean to.” Cole murmurs,“I am trying to get better at it. Varric says it is like spoilers. I have to be careful to not say it otherwise I ruin the ending.”

Krem blinks, “Varric?”

Cole nods, “Yes. He calls me kid and pretends that I am like him even though I am not. He thinks that if he explains things it will make more sense. Sometimes it works.”

Krem doesn’t understand that past there being another person besides himself that Cole talks to on a regular basis. Which is a major thing to realise considering that Krem hasn’t seen anyone else in the entirety of Skyhold to even notice the strange kid.“So other people do remember you!”

“Sometimes,” Cole agrees, “The bath is done.”

“Fuck yeah,” Krem crows. Any other questions he would have asked flying out of his head at the prospect of finally getting clean. He struggles out of the last of his sodden clothes. He doesn’t bother to fold them, leaving a mess of tangled clothing on the tiled floor. He sinks into the water with a low groan, tense muscles finally relaxing.

Next to him Cole makes an odd, breathy sound. Krem looks in question and laughs, “You don’t have to close your eyes!”

“It’s rude to peek,” Cole insists, eyes determinedly screwed shut.

“I won’t mind,” Krem says, he’s smiling--can’t help it when presented with the madness that is Cole. “Might even like it,” he adds before he can think better about it.

Cole’s eyes pop open. Wide and blue and utterly mesmerising, “you're not lying,” he says. There’s a careful, considering look aimed it Krem. It does something to his insides, a low shiver that makes his face heat and remind Krem of exactly where he is.

Naked, in a stolen bathtub, the strangest boy Krem’s ever met looking at him with fucking bedroom eyes.

“Why would I be lying?” It comes out a little more breathless than Krem means it to. The shiver works its way downwards.

“People don’t usually like it when I look at them.”

“You don’t say,” Krem says, not believing it in the slightest in this small moment of pure insanity.

“Bug eyes boring into my back. Little pieces of wrongness like currents where there should be cherries. Shite wish I could make him disappear. Don’t like him, gonna put an arrow in his face if he doesn’t cut that shit out!” Cole recites, sing song in a cadence that Krem dimly places as belonging to the blonde elf that lives on the second floor of the tavern, “I try not to look when I don’t need to.”

“Oh,” The lust fades into confusion. “You can’t just make her forget like everyone else?”

Cole’s head shakes, “It’s too dangerous to make her forget. She might shoot me by accident if she doesn’t remember I’m on her side.”

“Looks to me like she might shoot you anyway.”

“That’s what Bull said!”

“Great minds think alike,” Krem says, raising a hand to scratch at the back of his head before what Cole’s _actually said_ get’s through.

“What do you mean Bull said that?” Krem stares wide eyed at Cole, “you mean Bull notices you?”

“Yes,” Cole says, “Is that a problem?”

“Well--no,” Krem says. he frowns, he’s seen Bull look through Cole on occasion, when someone had to drag Krem away from the wing and Bull had drawn the short straw. Knowing that Bull can sometimes see Cole makes everything a whole lot more confusing.

Krem watches Cole blink lazily, eyes opening clouded, “Quiet kid, good with knives. Should introduce him to Skinner… Had that thought before, Kid out of my head, I’m not in your head The Iron Bull. Skyhold is for the Chargers, not for boys that are strange and confusing and terrifying.”

“Bull thinks you’re terrifying?”

“Sometimes. He doesn’t know if he can kill me.”

Krem makes a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat, reaching for soap. Cole makes no sense, ever. It should annoy Krem more than it does but he’s gotten used to the fact that sometimes the things Cole says just can’t be translated into trade.

He focuses on getting the grime of the morning off of his body. The soap is lavender, he thinks. Expensive. Exactly the sort of thing that pampered mages would get a hold of. Exactly the sort of thing that dirty mercs should keep their paws off. There’s a visceral sort of delight in Krem’s gut when he drags the soap down his arms.

“You really didn’t like Orlais,” Cole says in a whisper. “It clings in the cracks. Cloying perfume that made you sneeze, ham that tasted of despair. Stalking shadows too like Tevinter but not enough to make it home.”

“Out of my head Cole.”

“Sorry.”

Cole falls silent. Krem pays it no attention, focused on getting dirt out of his hair as best he can. Fuck he’s missed having decent baths. He can’t remember the last time he’s ever had the chance to just relax without needing to think of other people or how much time he’s wasting by simply lying around.

There’s a shelf, above the bath with a load of fancy products on it. Even fancier than the soap, if such a thing is possible. He turns, water sloshing everywhere at the movement until he’s facing the row of fancy bottles. Must be something here for hair, nobles are always complicating shit like that.

Cole makes an odd little noise. Like he’s a startled rabbit or something. Krem blinks, then realises what’s happened.

“Yeah it’s kind of ugly isn’t it?” He says, trying to navigate the curly writing that handwriting that Orlesians like to pretend is a proper language. The black marks on his back itch under the weight of Cole’s stare. He turns away and starts massaging soap through his hair. “Hurt like a fucking bitch when it came through.”

Cole doesn’t say anything. Krem hears him moving though, and if it weren’t for the soap in his eyes, he would look. As it is he can hear the footsteps move behind him. Something that should worry him more--backs are delicate things and Cole isn’t the naked one here.

“The name doesn’t know what it should say. So it tries both and gets stuck.” Cole says.

“Sure,” Krem snorts, “Or the bastard can’t be arsed to decide if they want me to bugger off or not.” He ducks under the water to get rid of the soap. When he surfaces he looks over his shoulder. Cole is there, hovering with his hand out like he isn’t sure what he’s trying to do with it.

“Yeah?”

Cole blinks. The hand darts out further until it’s a ghost above Krem’s skin, “Can I touch it?”

“Sure,” Krem says. (Later Dalish will hit him and point out that he’s just granted one of the worst breaches of privacy ever)

There’s a breath. A beat of silence where Cole’s breath catches, and Krem finds himself caught suddenly in the blue of Cole’s eyes.

And then there’s the click of high heels on tiled floor, a door slamming open and and a manicured hand grabbing the back of Cole’s shirt to pull him roughly away, “Get back, demon.” Vivienne says, firm and uncompromising.

Krem turns, startled. He pulls his knees up in an effort to defend his more fragile bits. This is not good. This is very not good. He is naked in a bathtub belonging to a woman who knows how to set him on fire.

“She’s not angry at you,” Cole says, his hand dropping. He turns to look at Vivienne, “I haven’t done what you think I have.”

Vivienne’s lips purse in disgust. “You--out,” She says, letting go of the back of Cole’s shirt and flexing her hand like it’s been near something disgusting.

A glimmer of fire makes itself known behind Krem’s breastbone.

“Ruined the sacred places, have to clean _everything_.”

“ _Out Demon._ ” Vivienne snarls. Krem’s back itches. He blames the soap.

Cole looks at her despairingly. “His skin feels wrong under your stare.”

“I do not care. You have no business in my bathroom and you certainly have no business consorting with members of the Inquisition who have not been informed about your true nature.”

“I haven’t done what you think I have,” Cole says again.

“Just go Cole,” Krem interrupts. He can feel the crackle of magic below the surface of the room, too much like his childhood to mean anything good. If there is going to be spellwork here, Krem would rather it be from the predictable mage, as opposed to the one who has a tendency to go invisible at the slightest provocation. (Though apparently not as much as Krem had thought, which is a troubling thought).

Cole turns to him. Still angled in a manner that if Krem didn’t know better he would say was protective. He’s got that weird look on his face from earlier. Something like longing at the edges of his stare. Another thing doesn’t make the least bit of sense.

“I’ll be fine,” Krem says.

“I’m not a mage,” Cole says, but he leaves the room. A turn on his heel before he vanishes out of the door.

Vivienne sniffs, “You are to stay in that corridor.”

“If it will help,” Krem barely hears. A mumble through a thick wooden door.

“I will not find you here again,” Vivienne says. Krem nods, already knowing what would happen. This was always a one off thing. A shame considering how nice the place is. “And if I was in your situation, I wouldn't let a demon so close to my intimate secrets.”

She leaves before Krem can ask her what the hell she means about that.

* * *

 

There is an argument brewing in the mage tower. Varric watches Vivienne, resplendent in her silks, sweep past him into the rotunda Solas has made as his own personal sanctuary. One of her hands is clasped in the back of Cole’s shirt. For all the world looking like a mother with a particularly unruly child.

Varric smirks. He thinks he’s going to keep that observation to himself for now.

“I thought you said you had him under control,” Vivienne rages. The way all polite Orlesians rage, in that if you didn’t know what to look for you wouldn’t know what the emotion was at all. On the surface it is merely a polite, if caustic statement.

Solas says, with an air of long suffering confusion, “He isn’t mine to control.”

“You were the one tasked with making sure he didn’t harm anyone.”

“Cole?”

“I haven’t done what she thinks I have.” Cole says plaintively. “I won’t disappear if you stop touching me.”

“I do not believe you.”

Varric inches closer to the door. His fingers itch for his notebook.

“Would either of you like to explain to me what has happened?” Solas asks. Varric can imagine the scene. Solas and Vivienne squaring off against each other, both of them stiff thanks to the rods shoved up their asses and glaring. He makes a mental note to remember this kind of tension for the book he’s currently writing.

“I found the demon tempting a member of the Inquisition.” Vivienne says.

“I wasn’t.”

“Cole isn’t a demon,” Solas reminds patiently, “What exactly did you catch him doing?”

“Ruining a man's soulmark.”

“ _I didn’t!_ ” It’s the most emotion that Varric’s ever managed to hear from Cole. Outrage clear but under that something that sounds a whole lot more like guilt.

Varric makes his entrance, “Why don’t we all just take a few steps back from each other,” he says, trying for amiable. It falls flat.

“Of course you’ve been listening,” Vivienne says. She’s looking at him like he’s some nug that’s managed to shit on her favourite pair of shoes.

“You have been talking loudly,” Varric says, “Let the kid go won’t you?”

“And have him disappear to go and finish what he started? I think not.”

“I haven't done anything.” Cole insists again. He tries to tug himself out of Vivienne’s hold, but the hand on his back tightens until the knuckles turn white. “Stuck between two states, either one right and wrong. It gets stuck where the letters change! I didn’t do it!”

There’s an awkward silence as the other three try to decrypt that. Solas is the one to make it all out first, “It’s the name isn’t it.”

“Yes,” Cole says, so grateful Varric can taste it.

“Vivienne let him go. I suspect that I know how to explain what you saw.”

Vivienne looks at him sourly, but drops her hand. She immediately goes for a handkerchief.

“The kid isn’t that dirty,” Varric says. His eyes roll.

Vivienne merely sniffs, “Then explain.”

Solas does, but it’s background noise to Varric now. He doesn’t care about a soldier’s mark. That shit’s already private; Varric has no reason to go rooting around there. At least, he doesn’t think he does. He sidles up to Cole.

“How about you and me get a drink.” he says.

“I don’t drink.”

“How about I get a drink and you sit down and tell me about this new friend you’ve made.” Varric amends.

“Would it help?”

“It would help me,” Varric says, with a magnanimous shrug. Behind him Solas and Vivienne are yelling about fade connections. It all sounds very technical. He leads Cole out of the rotunda, letting the argument brewing there to it’s own devices.

* * *

 

“So Bull I met this boy,” Krem says, sliding into the seat next to Bull’s in the tavern. He’s still wet from the bath, and most of the good it had done had been thoroughly ruined thanks to the fact Krem had had to put his dirty clothes back on. But he smells like lavender and his hair is properly clean for the first time in days so Krem takes his victories where he can get them.

Bull leans back, “You need tips?” He wiggles his fingers, and his eyebrows.

Krem chokes on air, “Fuck no!” he manages to splutter out.

“Then you’re asking me for what?”

“He says he’s called Cole,” Krem says. He watches Bull’s shoulders tense. A sudden weight behind them that makes Krem’s chest tighten.

“Oh.”

“He said he’d met you.”

“Yeah, I’ve met him. He’s on the bosses team and sometimes she takes us both out together.”

Krem nods--he’s already figured that part out. There’s not many places where Bull, Varric and Sera all end up together except the tavern, and Krem is sure he would have noticed if Cole had suddenly ended up joining in with the drinking that happens every few nights.

“Has he--done anything to you or something?”

“No.” Krem squints at Bull, “Why’d you go straight to thinking he’s done something?”

Bull shuffles uneasily for a minute. Obviously debating whether to tell Krem something or not.

“Look, I know he’s a bit weird.” Krem adds, “But the most I’ve seen him do is make people forget about him or make himself invisible. He’s not like, evil or something. I just want to know what you think of him.”

“Don’t fuck Cole.” Bull says after a considering look at Krem.

Krem blinks. He blinks again. No that still doesn’t make any sense. “What? No! Bull--I didn’t ask cause of _that_.”

Krem firmly ignores the part of his brain now wondering what fucking Cole would even be like. All long limbs and slender fingers and a wiry strength proven from hours of manual labour… Bull laughs, and Krem realizes that he’s blushing.

“Sure you’re not asking for sex tips?”

“I just want to know what's up with him,” Krem says. Trying desperately to get this conversation away from sex and Cole in the same space in his brain. No matter how nice an image it happens to be. And isn’t that the weirdest thought ever.

Bull’s shoulders tense again. “You think I have a better idea than you do?”

“I think you know something,” Krem shoots back. “Stop being an evasive ass already.”  

Bull purses his lips, and leans onto the table heavily. He looks at Krem for a long time before finally rumbling, “He’s a demon.”

“No he’s not.” Krem dismisses. He’s _fought_ demons. Cole isn’t one.

“Well he’s not human either.” Bull says, “Be careful around him.”

“Yeah I will once I’ve seen him do something scarier than rescuing kittens,” Krem says, a roll of his eyes. He needs a drink. Why did he not get a drink before sitting next to Bull? He steals the tankard sitting in front of Bull and hopes it isn’t qunari rotgut again. It is. Another low point. He gets up to get something from the bar.

Bull’s hand wraps around his wrist, “Seriously Krem, be careful.”

“I’ll be fine.” Krem shrugs, “He’s harmless, really Bull.”

Bull lets him go. Krem smiles, an attempt to be reassuring. It falls as soon as he’s turned away. Shit.

Cole isn’t a demon. He isn’t. But then why did Bull say that he was?

* * *

 

On the other side of the tavern Varric slides a mug of ale across the rickety table. Cole looks at it, and takes a sip before carefully putting the ale back down. It still tastes as disgusting the last time he’d tried it. Eating and drinking are already strange experiences without adding alcohol to them.

“What did you want to know?” he says, looking at Varric from under the brim of his hat.

Varric is all words, flitting around his head and hands. A lot of them right now are questions.

“His names Krem,” Cole says. “I’m not meant to tell anyone that I’m his friend.”

“So that’s why I haven’t heard anything about him till Vivienne walked in on you.” Varric says, his eyebrow quirking.

“Yes. He was having a Bad Day. I could help. I didn’t mean for her to find us.”

“Well that’s Vivienne for you. She always turns up when you don’t want her to. Why couldn’t you tell me about your new friend?”

“He didn’t want me to.” Cole raises his left hand, running it across the brim of his hat. “You’re upset at that. Why?”

Varric leans back in his chair, taking a swig of ale. “I’m worried about you kid.”

“You don’t have to be.” Cole’s head tilts. “He won’t hurt me.” He can see the images as Varric thinks of them. He doesn’t like any of them. “He’s nice. Strange boy, wonder why he’s like that, you won’t tell on me will you? Eyes looking across a room, does he know that he’s staring at me?”

The images change, “He’s not like that either!”

“Then why don’t you tell me what he is like?”

“Would that help?”

“It would.”

Cole nods, then ducks his head. His hand falls onto the table, fingers spread outwards on the cracks left by a knife. He’ll ask the table later about how it got it. “Training with Cullen in the mornings--Skinner wants to run over drills with me again. Need to remember to get more of that spice Bull likes--”

“No not like that,” Varric cuts him off. “Stay in your head. Tell me what he’s like to you. Not what he’s like to himself.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Spoilers kid, remember what I said about spoilers?”

“Yes,” Cole nods. “I remember.” He tries again. “He’s the lieutenant of the Chargers, and he loves them. They’re his family. Even when they fight he loves them. He’s kind. He wants to be useful, and doesn’t like when he’s not doing something. Even when he’s waiting in the tavern he’s doing something.”

It spills out. A rambling meandering list. It’s hard not to slip into the things that only Cole can see but he tries. He wants to tell Varric of how Bull sees Krem, and the cooks. And how Krems already thinking of what to get Cole for Satinalia, even though it’s not for another few months.  Except Cole isn’t meant to know any of that. He has to keep with what’s in the world Varric can see. A much shorter list than Cole would have if he could say everything.

He tries anyway. Finally ending on the one thing about Krem that hurts.

“He doesn’t want me.” Cole finishes. He doesn’t mean to say it. “Forget that,” he says immediately after.

“I thought we talked about making me forget things too.” Varric says.

“I’m sorry.” He repeats his last remark, once Varric’s looking at him blankly again and wondering why he’s suddenly paused in the middle of a sentence.

Varric doesn’t say anything for a long while. The words in his head spinning and twisting until Cole can’t make any sense of them. His head spins with them, waiting for Varric to pick which sentence to say first.

He tugs the wrappings off his left wrist. Listens to Varric inhale sharply when he finds the black spanning across the back of it.

“Well, shit.” Varric says.

“He doesn’t want it. An ache he keeps trying to ignore but he can’t help going back to it anyway. He thinks that the makers laughing at him. He preferred it when he had nothing at all.”

Varric’s large hand covers the marks, squeezing Cole’s hand gently. “It’s like that sometimes.”

“Matched across our chests. Why must I be made for her when she kisses another man and turns me away?”

Varric sucks in a breath, “Yeah, like that.” He smooths calloused fingers over Cole’s hand. A thumb trailing up the black that sweeps across the knuckles of Cole’s little finger.

“She’s sorry,”

“She had her reasons,” Varric says, it sounds like a correction. Cole ducks his head. The words around Varric are all spiky. Cole doesn’t like it. He bites at his lip. “And we’re not talking about me anyway kid, this is your day.”

“Endless doors closing,” Cole murmurs, “He was told they were mistakes. He doesn’t want to find out how I’m going to ruin his life.” His face shutters, “I’m hurting him.”

Varric looks at him, eyes sad and understanding. “Sometimes it’s like that.”

“I almost touched it. I didn’t mean to. I can’t do that again otherwise he’ll know. Finally trapped and tangled and torn apart. I’ve already ruined the name.”

“I don’t think it’ll be quite that bad,” Varric says, but even he doesn't believe it.

“I can’t be wrong again. I won’t be wrong again.” Cole says. He takes his hand back, scrubbing at the black marks. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s drawn to Krem. Doesn’t know why except he is and he likes being around the other man. He wishes the marks would go away.

He can’t be around Krem if he’s hurting him! He won’t be a demon again. He won’t. If that means he can’t help Krem anymore then… Cole supposes that not hurting Krem is worth the price of not being able to talk to him anymore.

His chest hurts. A slow shrivelling shiver next to his heart. He ignores it.

 


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

 

It’s been a week since Krem’s encounter with the most terrifying mage to ever live. In that time the weather’s managed to go from awful to just moderately depressing. As well as cold. Well, colder is more accurate. Damn the south. 

if there’s only thing that Dorian and Krem agree on it’s how fucking cold it is down here. Though Krem privately thinks that Dorian is not helping himself by wearing clothes that are both missing bits of themselves and not giving in already to the delights of wool coats. Unlike Krem who is wearing three layers under his armour. 

But at least it’s stopped raining. 

He’s back in the wing again. There’s a delegation coming apparently that need rooms sorted out. Though that’s par for the course now at Skyhold thanks to the Inquisitions apparent novelty. And there’s talk of maybe getting a barracks sorted for some of the recruits now that there’s enough of them to warrant something other than the city of tents that strings the inside walls of the keep. Either way it means that Krem’s got to clear shit out. 

He’s done a good job of it so far, he thinks. Honestly between his other duties Krem hasn’t been able to spend much time working on it. There’s a floor now, at least,  and most of the dust has finally been banished. There’s even unlocked doors, though Krem isn’t in charge of things like that so he hasn’t even thought of touching them. Save for the cursory glance to make sure there weren’t any squirrel nests lurking where a soldier could accidentally get caught unawares by them. 

Krem is not being paranoid, voice that sounds suspiciously like Dalish, whispering “scaredy cat” in his ears. 

No, he is doing important work. In this case moving all the accumulated shit in the corner to the place where it is meant to be: The cart filled with all the other junk that used to be Skyhold so it can finally be thrown off the side of a cliff. Or more likely get requisitioned and turned into more useful junk, but Krem can dream. 

It’s boring, tedious work, as it has been since the start. It’s worth it though, to have something to do with his hands that isn’t fucking mending. Skyhold needs curtains and sheets and bandages and clothes repairs and uniforms made and Krem is proud to say that so far he has managed to avoid the bulk of that work.

Carrying junk is far more rewarding in the sense that afterwards Krem’s eyes aren’t trying to bleed out of his sockets, and there’s a cramp in his hand that will take forever to knead out. An old language he doesn’t even think in anymore winding it’s way round his ears. 

A turn of phrase that is distinctly Cole-like, Krem thinks with a smile. He drags a bunch of tile from the corner and lugs it onto the cart. A cloud of dust raises as he does--there goes any chance of Krem not needing to mop. 

Talking about Cole, it’s been awhile since Krem’s seen him. A fact that seems more important than it really is. Between Krem’s schedule, Cole’s Coleness and the whims of the Inquisitor it makes sense that there are going to be times that they don’t share any free time. It’s a bit annoying though, since it means that Krem can’t just go and ask the man what it means when Bull and apparently the rest of Skyhold thinks he’s a demon. 

Bull being the important one, since that had not been joking around. Which means that Krem has to take it as true even when it doesn’t make sense. 

He grunts, grabbing another bit of rubble to throw onto the cart. 

Cole is one of the least demony people Krem has met. Minus the weird thing where he dredges up bad memories without realising it, occasionally makes Krem thinks he’s going insane via making up an imaginary friend, talking to the architecture like it’s a person and---okay so maybe there’s more credence to it being true when Krem thinks about it. 

Except that Cole’s also the one that saves seed to feed the birds and leaves out things for the flies so the spiders have enough food to make webs on. Who steals a blanket for Krem and finds a heating rune for his clothes and tent so Krem doesn’t have to deal with the mess. Whatever demon Cole is, he’s a weird one. 

Krem’s smile quirks up. He probably looks like an idiot; smiling at a bunch of stone rubble that’s too broken to be used as paving anymore. 

There’s no one else to see though, so Krem doesn't bother to school it back into something that wouldn’t get him teased forwards and back with if any of the Chargers were around to witness it. He’s allowed to be a sap where no one else can see. Thinking about Cole and his weirdness is better than running through what drills he’s going to have to teach while he breaks his back shifting rubble. 

 

* * *

 

Cole rests his head against the wall of a place he can’t let himself enter. A ghost of a smile on his lips as he listens to things no one else can hear. He should not be here. It’s alright. In the shadows no one can see him, and Cole finds that when it is intentional he does not mind the eyes that skip over him. 

He hums a song that no longer has words. His hand brushing the curls of black hidden under the wraps of his left arm. 

 

* * *

 

 

Krem watches the recruits that have been put under his command and resists the powerful urge to put his head in his hands. To a man, they’re completely and utterly hopeless. Krem doesn’t understand it, he really does not.

Oh sure there’s always the excuse that half of the recruits are really farmers that lied through their teeth to get into the army. But even farmers should know how to swing a sword. Surely. Aren’t there like, wolves that need to be persuaded away from the sheep? Or goats? 

“Alright, stop,” Krem says after he’s had enough of watching them fumble at each other. “You’re not supposed to just flail around and hope you hit something.” He’s missing running around with the Chargers for this. He is missing the chance to see Sera walk into a pie to train soldiers that don’t seem to ever listen to him. 

Why? 

No, wait, Krem knows why. Because he’s a sap that can’t say no to big eyes and earnest apologies when coupled with requests that Krem doesn’t technically have any reason to say no to. Even when he really, really, really wants to. Anyway he’s been leading morning drill with them for at least three weeks now so if anything it’s his fault at this point. 

“I’m going to go through the first pattern again. Pay attention and then start on the dummy when I signal,” Krem orders and drags up something from his days in Tevinter’s army. It’s one of the really easy practice drills--just stab, parry, slash, parry, repeat. It’s designed more to help with gaining a solid posture than any fancy swordwork but basics are basics, and this lot obviously need it. Krem bets that Skinner would be able to knock all of their legs out from under them in under a minute. “Your turn,” he says after running through it a few times. 

He ends up having to call out the patterns. A move that reminds him so much like his old sergeant that it honestly is giving him hives. This is not what he signed up for. With the Chargers everyone’s already got at least the basics of weapons down, and what they don’t is the more complex maneuvers that most people end up learning on the fly regardless. Krem is not a teacher, and besides   he was more skilled with a blade when he was ten than these people. 

They’re getting the hang of it though, Krem thinks, and he drops off the yelling to call out corrections when someone’s put their stance too low or is using their sword in a way that would get their head lopped off in a real fight. 

Idly, he wonders what Cole would be like here. Maybe not on a training field, or under Krem’s command, but on a battlefield. Krem knows that Cole has some weapons experience, thanks to Bull and the fact that Krem has a brain. If you go out with the Inquisitor you need to know how to defend yourself. Otherwise you end up getting your face eaten off by a demon. 

Even knowing that Krem finds it difficult to imagine Cole holding any sort of weapon. Sure he’s got the strength and muscles for it, not that Krem’s been looking or anything, and he moves like a dancer; every step a fluid glide into the next. But it’s Cole. Danger and Cole just don’t work in the same sentence together. 

Not unless Krem wants to give himself a headache anyways. 

Maybe he’d be a rogue. Something quick and agile that can ghost through a battlefield without anyone being the wiser. Like he does when he’s wandering around Skyhold. All lithe grace and careful movements. Yeah, Krem can imagine Cole holding a pair of knives between his long fingers. Sneaking through to weaknesses that Krem can barely see, let alone exploit with his heavy maul. But are perfectly suited for the quick slide of a blade between chinks of armour. Just in time to save a teammate from getting on the wrong side of a blade. 

He nods vaguely, and calls out another correction as someone uses their sword like a pigsticker instead of the deadly weapon it is. 

Yeah, he can imagine Cole like that. Wouldn’t mind having his back to Cole in a fight, so long as the kid knew how to jump out the way when Krem needed him to. He must do; he goes out with Bull after all. That must be a sight, Bull with his bulk and Cole with his ability to appear waiflike even when Krem’s seen the muscles in action picking up heaving masonry. 

He’s seen the flex of Cole’s arms, and chest underneath the thin, patched shirt that Krem’s never seen him change out of. Sometimes Krem’s reached out and felt them, when Coles’ doing something stupid and needs to be held back before he topples over. Or when Krem turns too fast and there’s suddenly a chest against his own. 

Krem knows what noise Cole makes when he’s startled: A small breathy gasp that--

“Hello Krem-de-la-Creme”

“Guh.” Krem says as a heavy arm falls across his shoulders. 

Bull, like the complete ass he is, rolls his head back and laughs. “I interrupt something important?” 

“No.” Krem says. Then remembers that he’s actually meant to be doing a job here, “Yes. Actually, I am. Very busy babysitting Cullen’s idiots, why?” 

The idiots look at Krem like he’s betrayed them. Honestly, what did they expect? They’re in the remedial group’s remedial group here. Krem does not need nor want to be nice. He looks up expectantly at Bull, as much as he can when the great lug’s using Krem as a leaning post anyway. 

“I can’t just visit my favourite lieutenant  in the whole world when I feel like it?” Bull says. 

“No.” 

“Krem you wound me.” 

“And you’re distracting me when I’m working.”

“Looked to me like you were already distracted.” Bull says, with a grin. 

Krem glares up. His lips quirk into a smile at the corners, “What d’you want you great lummox?”

“Charger meeting,” 

Krem’s smile turns thoughtful, “What, we got a mission or something?” 

“Nah, just need to get a catch up. Been awhile since all of us have been in the same place for long enough to get more than a drink.” Bull makes an expansive shrug, chest muscles rippling with the movement. 

“Right,” Krem says with a nod. “I am actually busy though. So I’ll have to skip out” He gestures vaguely with his sword at the group of idiots. 

“This is more important than pretending to be in an army,” Bull says solemnly. 

Krem’s eyes narrow. It’s not often that Bull disrupts practice, though Krem isn’t too sure if this farce even deserves that name as a joke. There’s only a few things that Bull would make an issue out of, and since they’re not in a place where they can be ambushed, he’s already slept with all the redheads, and there isn’t a good curry place anywhere near Skyhold, it has to be the other thing. The thing that involves sneakiness and Qun politics and all of Krem’s least favourite things. 

He gives Bull a terse nod, and turns to the recruits, “You lot, dismissed until tomorrow! Try not to fall on your own swords in the meantime, got it!”

There’s a chorus of mumbling affirmatives that Krem can barely hear. Doesn’t really matter--hell he hasn’t even learned half their names past the really useless ones. They’re not Chargers, they’re not his recruits. Not really. When he’s facing Bull again the taller man has a frown, a narrowed eye glaring past Krem at the gathered idiots. 

“What?” 

“You know they’re giving you shit?” 

“I’m their Sarge,” Krem points out, making his way to the tavern, “Course they’re giving me shit. C’mon, if you’re going to be a secretive arse at me you’d better at least buy me a drink.”

“No seriously,” Bull says, catching up with him in one massive stride, “that’s more than the usual shit talk you get when someone’s in command of you.”

“Yeah?” Krem tilts his head back to consider the idiots, “What are they saying then?” 

“Whore.” 

There’s a moment of silence as Krem contemplates that, “Well that’s new.” He allows, “Am I a good one?” 

“You’d have to ask the Commander.” Really? This again? Honestly. 

“I’m a little too straight for that,” Krem comments. He swings open the door to the tavern. 

The tavern that is suspiciously empty even for this time of day. Suspicious, Krem’s hackles raise. Stupid reaction really, he knows that Bull wouldn’t just let him walk into danger and Skyhold’s one of the safest places that Krem’s ever been in. Up to and including that time when a comtesse got a crush on Skinner and let them all stay for weeks in what was practically the lap of luxury. But the empty silence of the tavern--no music, no chatter from the upper levels, no drunk wailing in the corner--makes Krem think immediately of another time he was caught unawares in an empty tavern. 

His eyes flicker over the familiar wooden settings of the tavern, searching out the hidden shadows and wondering suddenly if he was wrong about the chances of an ambush here. The door closes behind him. Krem feels his breath hitch in panic right before a small explosion goes off and, and the combined yell of about fifteen people yelling “Happy Nameday!” at the top of their lungs echoes to the rafters. 

When the light of the explosion’s blinked away, Krem finds the tavern is a great deal more crowded. And now he can see the handiwork of Sera on all the tables, little things that make the eye skitter over them to hide all the people just barely in the shadows. 

Sera herself is perched on a table, grinning widely next to what looks like a cake. Maybe. If cakes are meant to be lopsided and maybe just a little charred. The Chargers are spread about the rest of the tavern, Rocky covered in a fine layer of soot from the flashbang he set off. The other’s are unscathed, and all of them are grinning. 

In response, Krem smiles back, just a little bit uncertain at the edges, “What is this?” 

“You mean the yelling wasn’t obvious?” Bull says. He moves to join the rest of the chargers, “Don’t tell me you  _ forgot _ .”

Krem just shrugs, “It’s not like it’s important.” 

“It’s your nameday,” Dalish says with a long-suffering air, “Course it’s important. Now stop gawking and start handing out the ale!”

There’s a raucous cheer that practically raises the roof. Krem’s lips curve upwards, realisation setting in and all tension leaving his body. He nods, and does what he’s told. 

 

* * *

 

In the rafters of the tavern, Cole’s heart aches. 

 

* * *

 

Later, much later, Krem looks down the almost empty bottle of what was once really fancy wine and sighs happily. He’s in the realm of pleasantly tipsy, where the world has that slightly fuzzy edge in the corners of his vision and it feels like there’s nothing that can stop his good mood. 

They’d opened the party up to the rest of the Inquisition once night had fallen, and then it had really started to get into the swing of things. 

Which means that Krem is currently stationed in a corner as Grim clears out the entire bar of all of their loose change, Bull flirts outrageously with Dorian, and Skinner is suspiciously missing. He should probably be more worried about that than he currently is. 

There’s a pile of gifts next to him--little simple things. A new bottle of armour polish, a stack of fabrics from old shirts and shit that’s been scavenged up and is going straight into Krem’s kit as soon as he gets back to his tent.  A, of all things, dawnstone sword from Bull that is never going to get used. It’s way too light for Krem’s tastes. Not to mention the damn things pink. Dorian’s gift of wine is already settling comfortably in Krem’s stomach. 

A usual haul then, though Krem’s still getting used to getting nameday presents at all. When he’d been a kid there’d only ever been enough money for a box of candy, if that. 

Krem tilts the chair back on it’s back legs to get it at a better angle to lean against. Like this he’s also got a better vantage point of where the real fun is--namely the diamondback game that Krem is not participating in because he actually likes being able to buy his own alcohol. 

Apparently Varric, the Commander and Rocky haven’t learned their lesson yet about going up against both Grim and Josephine. There’s already a pool running as to how long it’ll take the Commander to go treat the castle to a prime show of his intimate bits. Krem has two coppers on an hour, but now he feels he was a little too generous. The commander’s already lost the heavy mantle that is very definitely the warmest thing Krem has ever had the pleasure of wearing. Apparently Krem’s getting a strip show for his nameday. 

The chair tilts back a little more. Krem lets a smirk spread across his lips. Just a small one. With his eyes trained on Cullen, he doesn’t see the tightening of Varric’s mouth, and the narrowing of the dwarf’s eyes. 

What he does see is blonde hair, and lean muscles that make up a powerful figure. Broad shoulders now revealed to the warm air of the tavern. Krem swallows, mouth dry. Cullen shifts uncomfortably under Josie’s grin; telegraphing to the entire room he’s got a shit hand. The muscles in his back move hypnotically. 

“You know you’re really not helping the rumours when you’re eyefucking Cullen across room.” Bull says as he settles into the chair next to Krem’s. 

“Hm?” Krem turns slightly so Bull’s lips are in the periphery of his vision. 

“You, and the Commander.” 

“‘M allowed to look.” Krem pouts, “It’s not like I’m planning to ravish him behind the back of the tavern or anything.” 

Bull snorts a laugh, “But you wanna.”

“Nah,” Krem dismisses. He waves his hand in an aimless gesture, “He’s not  _ that _ pretty.”

“So just pretty enough to check out from across the room.”

“Hey, he’s the one getting shirtless.”

Bull shrugs, “And you’re drunk.” 

“Not that drunk.” Krem protests, “anyway, what you doing over here instead of in your corner with the Altus?” 

“Just checking up on you,” 

“Sure,” Krem wrinkles his nose, takes a swig out of the empty bottle before aimlessly grabbing a new one. He misses on the first attempt. “Go on then, check up on me.”

Bull grabs the back of Krem’s chair before it topples over, “No more wine for you. The Inquisitor’s found a dragon. They’ve asked me to help with taking the thing down.”

“You mean you volunteered yourself for dragon hunting,” Krem corrects. He takes another swig out of his new wine bottle just to be annoying. The Commander is down to his breeches, and only those. Even his socks are owned by Josephine. “How long are you gonna be away for then?”

“Hard to tell, could be anything from a week to a month. Depends on how distracted everyone gets investigating old elven ruins,”

“You’re going with the elf mage then.” Krem notes. 

Bull rumbles an affirmative. He takes the bottle out of Krem’s lax grip. “We’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Nice of you to give me some warning,” Krem says, He grabs for his wine but it’s already held far out of reach. Then the logistics of Bull leaving tomorrow gets through his drunken haze and then he frowns, “Wait how does that work, isn’t the Inquisitor already out adventuring? You’re doing a supply run at the same time?”

Bull gives him an odd look, “No. They’re in Skyhold. Would have been here if they hadn’t had too much shit to get together already.” 

“Really? I was sure…” Krem trails off. His brow furrows, “No, they’re out with Cole and some of the others aren’t they?”

“Uhh….No. Everyone’s in Skyhold. Has been for a few weeks now.” 

Krem’s eyes narrow. “Really,” He says. And the first fissure of suspicion starts to curl in his stomach. 

It grows even more the next morning when he finds a box of candied fruits sitting on the outcropping of stone that used to be a wall of the wing. There’s a piece of card on top of it. A scribbled note in common wishing Krem a happy nameday. It’s not signed, but then it doesn’t need to be. There’s only one other person in Skyhold who knows that this is the place where Krem eats his lunch.

 

* * *

 

“Lieutenant Aclassi?, I’ve been meaning to have a word with you,” Josephine says with a smile. Krem looks at her like a man found in bed with the lovely barmaid by his wife. Behind him the Chargers pause in their practice maneuvers. He knows without looking that all of them are smirking at him.

“Whatever I did wrong I’ll fix it immediately,” he says. A wary, panicked smile spreads across his face.

“Oh no, nothing like that,” Josephine assures. It does absolutely nothing to calm Krem’s nerves. “I just came to ask you how the repairs are going in your section of Skyhold?” 

“..Right!” Krem says, after a brief moment where he just stares at her waiting for the recrimination that will ruin his life in three states of Orlais and one in the Free Marches, “It’s going well, not had much time to work on it recently since I’ve taken over Bull’s training of the team while he’s away. Why’d you want to know?” 

“The Orlesian delegation has seen fit to finally send us sponsors,” Josephine says, “And as the Fereldan delegation has in their infinite wisdom decided to stay past the dates they originally planned, I have no room to put them unless they accept to staying in tents for the duration of their stay.”

Skinner snorts next to Krem’s left shoulder, “Like that’s going to happen,” She says with a roll of her eyes. Krem eyes her, trying to communicate “this is the woman who pays us” with his mind. Skinner gives him a clearly unimpressed look. 

“That was what I had determined,” Josephine agrees, “I was wondering if perhaps we could get the east wing sorted in time for the delegation to stay there?”

Krem frowns, shifting his weight onto his right leg. “What kind of timeframe are we talking here?” He runs through all the tasks he still needs to do to get that corridor and rooms into shape. He’s just in charge of clearing and cleaning, not furnishing thank the maker otherwise he’d already be saying there’s no way he would be able to get it done in time. If he’s right, it’s just a matter of getting out the few bits of garbage still there, moving the cart he’s got piled up and finally getting rid of the beam. 

“They’ll be here by tomorrow,” Josephine says, an unhappy frown her usually impeccable features. “I just got the raven that they were arriving this morning.” 

“Ouch.” Skinner whistles, “They really like fucking you over don’t they?” 

Krem tries not to look at Skinner in utter horror. 

“Yeah I think I can get it done by then,” he says hurriedly, “won’t be the prettiest thing but it’ll be done.” 

“That would be perfectly adequate, Lieutenant. You’ve truly been a great help.”

“Glad I could help. And uh, it’s Krem actually.”

“Krem,” Josephine smiles. “Thank you. Now I’m terribly sorry but there’s a meeting with the Messere Louis and he tends to throw awful fits when he’s kept waiting. Good day.” 

“Good day,” Krem repeats dutifully, and carefully watches her retreating back step up the stairs to the main building that makes up Skyhold before slumping into his usual slouch. His back always straightens around her. It’s something to with the ruffles; they just, do something to him. And not the nice kind of something. 

In the aftermath he turns to the Chargers. “Please don’t tell me I just promised to get that pile of junk ready by tomorrow.” 

“Before tomorrow,” Skinner corrects with a vicious smirk, “Since those Orlesian shems will want proper beds and curtains and furnishings and shit.” 

She stalks around him, to where Dalish is perched on the fence of the training grounds. Her arm goes around the mage’s waist. Krem glares at her. 

“You set me up,” he accuses. 

“I did not,” Skinner leans back into Dalish, “You did it all without my help. Lieu-ten-ant.” 

“I hate you.” Krem says, “So much.” 

Skinner, and the rest of the Chargers, just laugh at him. 

But when he dismisses practice they come with him to deal with the wing, now that there’s not a chance in the void that Krem’s going to get it done by himself. Rocky is particularly smug about that, until Grim growls something that is both inaudible and possibly in another language. Whatever it is Rocky stops gloating, so Krem guesses that means Grim’s on his side here. 

On the way to the wing, Krem briefs them on what needs to be done, with a few asides for allocating proper jobs, reminding Rocky that the aim is not to demolish the entire thing, and that no Skinner they cannot piss in every room just to fuck around with whatever shems are going to be sleeping there considering that Krem likes being alive and not murdered horribly by mysterious assassins in the middle of the night. 

Krem is called both a spoilsport and a paranoid bastard. So all in all a usual start to missions that Bull isn’t leading.

 

* * *

 

“Krem,” Stitches says with the air of someone who is already completely done with the entire situation. 

“Yeah?” 

“This place is an utter shit hole.” 

Krem opens his mouth, about to take affront at that, when a bit of plaster falls on his head. He huffs a breath. “Yeah, it is. You’re going to help me anyway, yeah?” 

“If only to stop you doing something stupid.” Stitches says. He’s looking down at the ceiling beam in the corner with a raised eyebrow. Krem winces. So his bruised foot had apparently been recorded forever as an interesting enough injury for Stitches to remember for the rest of Krem’s natural life. Just what he needed: more mother henning. 

After that first stutter, everyone seems to get into the swing of things. Honestly, it is just a case of shifting shit until it can all be moved away. Now that there’s more people than just Krem and his mysteriously absent helper it’s going along at a pace that is a vast improvement on Krem’s previous slow crawl. 

Skinner and Rocky put most of their efforts into shifting the pile of junk. While the rest of them pair up to lug out the heavier bits of scenery that before Krem had just pushed to the edges of the room so he didn’t keep tripping over them. As a group they decide to avoid the beam. Until Grim grunts out a noise, gestures at Rocky and the beam is very suddenly a large pile of splinters. 

Dalish eventually huffs a breath and starts levitating broken tiles. (A skill well known by all Dalish archers, of course.) A stream of them trails around the room to stack neatly on the cart. And then less neatly when the pile inevitably falls over. 

Yeah, this is definitely going a lot faster than it would have otherwise. Krem isn’t even too mad about losing the bet anymore. Sure he owes Rocky money now but he’ll win it back later. Having the Chargers around is worth more than a few sovereigns. A fact that is definitely proven when Skinner quirks her lips, and starts up with one of the more bawdier tavern songs and everyone joins in until the tune is rattling around the stone hallway. 

Krem adds his own tenor to the lilting song. A smile running across his face as he gets lost in the work. He bends down, picks up a bigger piece of tile, and looks up to find blue eyes trained on him. 

“Cole,” Krem breathes, and the world goes still. 

Cole is exactly three steps away. Standing awkwardly in a space that everyone else is mysteriously avoiding stepping in. His mouth is open slightly, bottom lip caught between his teeth. Krem drops the tile. 

He gets up, launching into the space where Cole no longer is. Because Cole has stepped backwards, and Krem can only watch the other man quickly turn around, and practically run out of the room. Krem chases after him, before stopping abruptly after two steps and groaning softly. His hands going up to run through his hair in frustration.

Just when he thinks he’s got Cole all figured out he manages to do something completely unexpected. There’s no point chasing after someone who only stays visible because he wants to. Krem has no desire getting lost in Skyhold to bother someone who obviously doesn’t want to be around him right now.  

The song’s stopped. 

“What was that about?” Dalish says into the silence. 

“I have absolutely no idea,” Krem says. His back itches. He shakes his head, and turns away. When the singing starts up again, Krem doesn’t join in. 


	6. Chapter 6

Right, Krem thinks as his hands smooth down plush fabric. Right. So Cole’s avoiding him. Krem frowns, and stabs a needle into the currently formless shape in his hands. His eyes are narrowed, and he can’t seem to stop the weird tension seeping its way into his shoulders.

Cole’s avoiding him. It’s obvious now that Krem’s looking for it: A glimpse of the other man’s hat at the corners of Krem’s vision; The flash of his feet turning around a corner (And no matter how fast Krem runs there’s no sign of him on the other side); a hint of brown and blonde going out a window. Always, always just outside of where Krem can easily catch up with him.

Krem has no fucking clue what he’s done.

He puts a few more stitches through pink fabric until he’s holding something more recognisable as an animal head. Now to put the ears on.

Most of him is aware that he’s maybe taking this a little bit too personally. It’s not like he and Cole are anything more than--well work buddies, Krem supposes. And with the wing finished and handed over the interior decorators they don’t even have that. But dammit Krem had thought that they’d been at least friends. What with the talking and the literally being one of the only people who didn’t forget about Cole as soon as he was told to.

Krem grimaces, and supposes that isn't as true as it had been a few months ago. Since Cole had mentioned Varric, and Bull and other members of the Inquisitor's inner circle. Though he hadn't mentioned how long he'd been going around with them. Either way, Krem feels like he’s been made redundant.

The small, sick feeling in his stomach grows. Krem ignores it.

Fine. Fine so Cole's decided that they aren't friends anymore. Maybe hadn't realised that Krem had thought of Cole as a friend at all. He'd been sure he'd said something though. He'd meant to. Just like he'd kept planning to invite Cole for drinks with the boys. Krem'd never managed to get Cole to stay long enough to get the words out of his mouth.

Thinking about it, maybe Krem should have read more into that. Into the fact that even from the beginning Cole hadn't really wanted Krem to notice him.

He sets down the now completed head, rubbing one of it's ears slightly to check the fit before grabbing the next bits and pieces of the creation.

It's mindless work. Made so from the number of time's Krem's done this. Honestly if he had the choice he'd do something that at least requires a little more thought but he doesn't have any wool, and the maids chased him away from their mending after he got through four people's loads before stopping for a rest. He can't spar anyone either. Skinner and Dalish are off on a date of all things, Bull's killing dragons in the Emprise and Grim... Krem's not exactly sure where Grim is.

Either way, it means he's filled with all this restless energy. It has to go somewhere. Anything to stop himself from thinking anymore about boys with mesmerising eyes and stupid hats.

...At this point Krem isn't fooling anyone, not even himself and he knows it. But he's got nothing else to do except wallow right now, and at least this way he ends up with something that he can sell at the end of it. Not that he can ever bring himself to sell them. Though at least half of that is Bull's fault for stealing them before Krem can make a quick copper or two.

It’s good that someone at least appreciates Krem for what he brings to a group. Even if that something happens to be plush toys as he agonises about someone liking him like he’s some sort of lovesick fool in an orlesian opera.

He isn’t. He doesn’t like Cole like that. No matter how much he keeps fantasising when he’s not paying attention. Every second thought he keeps flashing back to the bath and Cole’s _eyes_.

Ugh. He needs to find some better way to stop himself from thinking. Especially considering how the end of that bath had gone. And how he can’t help but keep thinking that Cole is avoiding him thanks to the stupid mess that spans across the back of Krem’s ribs. No. Not thinking about that. Thinking about what colour eyes he needs to give this nug. Or what fabric he can salvage for it’s tail and feet since he’s run out of what he usually--

“Cremisius Aclassi, put down the nug,” Dalish’s voice rings out across the camp. Krem starts slightly, looking up at her with wide eyes. She and Skinner walk up towards him, both with matching smirks spread across their faces. Krem frowns at them, looking back down and pointedly continues stitching.

“I repeat, put down the nug,” Dalish says, plopping down next to Krem. Skinner following her like a particularly murderous shadow.

Krem looks at her out of the corner of his eye so he can see her lips, “What’s this about?”

“An Intervention.” He can feel the capital letter. She plucks the half finished nug out of his grasp, “You’ve been moping and it’s getting annoying.”

“I haven’t been moping!”

“You have,” Skinner says from his other side, “you’ve been mending.” She says mending like another woman might say killing puppies.

“Which you only do when you’re upset so tell us what the problem is already before we have to get out the feelings stick,” Dalish finishes. She pets the nug gently, an entirely too smug air emanating off of her. Krem glares.

“It’s nothing.”

“Krem-puff you are absolutely surrounded in nugs.”

“Am not.” Krem says, denying the evidence in front of his own eyes. Skinner throws one of the more unfortunate plushes at him. It’s made out of plaidweave, scavenged from one of Rocky’s old shirts. Krem had moved into spare fabrics after running out of the pink velvet he usually saves for all nug related makings. He’d had three yards of that stuff a week ago. “And don’t call me Krem-puff.”

“I can call you whatever I want when you’re being a baby,” Dalish says archly.

Skinner adds, “krem brulee” with a snort.

“You had better not tell that one to Bull,” Krem reaches over and grabs his half finished nug back. At the very least he’s going to make sure the poor thing has a body to attach the finished head to. Otherwise he’s just being cruel.

Dalish says nothing, but Krem can feel her judging him. Under the scrutiny Krem wilts slightly.

“It’s really nothing,” he says. He rethreads his needle, picking up the stitches where he’d left off, “I’m just being stupid.”

Over his head Dalish and Skinner exchange a look.

“Oh you really have it bad don’t you?” Dalish says.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Krem says. He steadfastly ignores the flash of blonde hair, and long slim fingers that appears at the edges of his mind. It’s good his complexion is so dark; Skinner can’t take the piss out of him for blushing.

“Krem.”

“Seriously, I don’t know what you’re on about. I’m just--can’t a man make nugs for his own reasons?”

“No.”

“Now tell us which girl you’re pining over.”

“He isn’t a girl,” Krem mutters. A phrase that is not audible to his own ears. “And I’m not pining!”

There’s another look over his head. Krem would mind more about that if it weren’t for the fact that Dalish and Skinner have always done that since discovering they were fated lovers. Or however the soulmarks work when they’re not broken and useless and really fucking itchy.

No Krem is not at all covetous. Not even a little bit.

He finishes stitching up the nug in silence. His face made carefully blank. He wants to frown, and sulk again but they’re both right: he’s been doing too much of that. He’s only gotten away with it thanks to Bull being away.

Around him Dalish and Skinner play with the nugs. Silly kids games in Orlesian so Krem can only understand about every second word. As far as he can make out, Dalish is pretending her nug is some dashing chevalier, on it’s way to saving Skinner’s nug who's on the other side of an impassible mountain made out of… Krem doesn’t know. Other than the fact that both of them almost break down in giggles after Skinner suggested it. Leading Krem to believe it’s something about him.  

They’re kind of ridiculous. Krem can’t help but smile, watching them out of the corner of his eyes as he works on finishing what will have to be the last nug. There’s very little chance Dalish and Skinner will let him make anymore.

Dalish’s chevalier makes a laborious journey up Krem’s legs (With much imagined huffing and puffing) to battle the large grey nug that Krem had only barely resisted putting a set of horns on. It’s a pitched fight, with lots of dramatic speeches (All in Orlesian) and a great deal of laughing. Much like how Dalish and Skinner are all the time.

Sometimes it feels like you can’t find one without the other. It’s apparently normal, cause of the mark on Dalish’s breast and the one that should be on Skinner’s right arm if it still existed. It doesn’t really make any sense to Krem.

He watches the chevalier reach their love. The nugs tapping each other’s noses in an approximation of a kiss. Something inside Krem twinges. He looks back at the poor, neglected thing he’s meant to be working on. Bites at his lip and figures that there’s really no reason to keep everything to himself.

“So I kinda met this boy,” Krem says and then the whole story spills out of him.

 

* * *

 

 

By the end of it Krem is breathing heavily, frustration finally given an outlet. The nug is finished, and clutched tightly in his left hand. He’d ended up giving it blue eyes, because every other colour just hadn’t felt right.

“And I don’t even fucking know what I did wrong.” Krem finishes. He swallows, staring at his knees. “I’m being stupid aren’t I.”

It’s Skinner who wraps Krem up in her arms. Or tries to at least; Krem’s a bit bigger than her. It’s a little weird actually. Skinner doesn’t hug people, not adult humans anyway. Krem thinks he saw her hug a kid who’d lost their parents once? Other than that--no. Only Dalish gets hugs from Skinner outside of Charger huddles.

So it’s a little uncomfortable, a little strained. It’s exactly what Krem needs right now and he ends up clinging to her waist. His face buried in her shoulder.

“You have it bad,” Skinner says above his head.

Krem grimaces, “It’s not like that. I just--he’s nice. I liked talking to him.”

Skinner huffs a laugh, but doesn’t say anything more. Krem can feel her judging him. She’s also running her left hand down his back though, so Krem supposes that he’ll let her have that free pass for now. Anyway, he knows he’s acting ridiculous.

“So how’re you planning to get him back?” Skinner asks.

Krem shrugs. “I dunno. Shouldn’t I just leave him alone? He obviously doesn’t want to be around me.”

The soothing hand on Krem’s back jabs him just under his ribs.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“You’re being a fucking baby,” Skinner says. She leans back to stare him in the eyes. When Krem tries to avert his gaze from her stare she grabs onto his chin to hold him in place. “Look you like this kid enough you’ve been sulking for the past _week_. You just spent ten minutes talking about his fucking smile, and I for one am fucking sick of it. Get your act together. Either stop moping around like you just got dumped, or go out there and find out why on the Maker’s pierced ballsack he’s made himself scarce. And then do something about it.”

She leans back, crossing her arms across her chest. Her face tilts up, and she looks down at him with a scowl firmly set across her narrow lips. “So I’m gonna ask again, how’re you planning to get him back?”

 

* * *

 

 

In the rafters of the tavern, Cole dimly notices the conversation happening below him. It is difficult not to, considering that Sera is one half of it. She is always loud, a biting winter wind that grabs scarves and blows under coats. She is laughing derisively, and the high sound of “What makes you think I’d know where he is?” echoes up into Cole’s hiding place.

“Cause you know where everyone is.” A voice that Cole is desperately trying not to register follows immediately after. It’s cracked at the edges, radiating pain and Cole flinches. No. No he never intended this. He is not meant to hurt but there is no way he can do anything but. If he had stayed it would have been even worse but staying away hadn’t done anything either.

Cole had tried to help. He had left coloured beads where Krem would find them, and treats that Dorian said were like the ones Cole tasted on his tongue on the lonely days. His left hand curves over his heart. Krem hadn’t picked up any of the things Cole had left for him.

“I don’t see why I should tell you nothing.” Sera says.

Whatever Krem says back is inaudible. Cole wonders if he should move. Flee before he can be seen. Yes, he should. He moves out of his corner to the door.

But then there are footsteps on the stairs, and Cole remembers that the door that once led to the battlements is now locked thanks to it belonging to Dorian as well as The Iron Bull. He’s trapped.

There’s a hitch of his breath. The dark a rising sea at the edges of his vision. The door is locked. His stomach clenches with a memory that he can’t quite grasp completely. He’s trapped in the dark all alone and there is no-one coming to--

“Right,” Comes a voice behind Cole’s head, and then very suddenly he’s being touched. Calloused hands digging into his shoulders and spinning him around. The dark and the cold and the wrenching agony replaced by angry brown eyes. “Stop avoiding me!”

“Krem.” Cole breathes. His own pain overtaken by the pit of despair Krem has been hiding in his stomach. _It hurts. It’s all Cole’s fault._ His hands go up and twist around each other, catching in the collar of his shirt.

Krem frowns, brows furrowing and looking up at Cole with concern warring against the anger. “Hey, are you alright?”

Cole shakes his head mutely. Eyes wide and slightly unfocused at the edges. “I hurt you.”

“...Um. Yeah. That’s kind of what happens when you up and leave a friend without even saying why,” Krem’s hands smooth down Cole’s shoulders. Almost coal-hot through the thin fabric of his shirt. “Look do you want to sit down or something, you’re all pale. Well, even paler than usual.”

The concern has won. Cole screws his eyes shut. He can’t look right now. Not when Krem’s feelings are a tangible, physical thing that warps and weaves around Cole like a wet cloak.

“I’m not meant to hurt you.”

“....Good to know.” Krem says. He doesn’t understand. Cole lets Krem lead him to the pile of boxes in the corner of the rafters, and made to sit down on one. Krem’s hand is still around his shoulders.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Cole tries again, “this is hurting you.”

Krem huffs a breath, “You’re doing that thing where you don’t make sense till I screw my head on backwards.”

“You can do that?”

“Metaphor, Cole.”

“Oh.” Cole remembers metaphors. Varric says they are what Cole does all the time, but he doesn’t think that is right. Cole says what he sees; it’s not his fault that no one else is able to. He stares down at his hands, the dirt trapped under his nails. “You still shouldn’t be here.”

“Right.You keep saying that. Are you going to actually explain why I shouldn’t be around you?” The anger returns at the edges of the words.

Cole swallows. He can’t. He can’t explain. If he does then the pain will get worse. Self doubt and hatred flowing into the pot that is already overflowing with the pain of being taught a lie and not wanting to realise it. It is not like Dorian. The same hurt in different places. Dorian is scared that he will be turned away and that he can’t be happy and safe at the same time. Krem is… Krem is terribly angry under all the layers. And he doesn’t want Cole.

“That’s a no then.” Krem says. Bitter and sharp. His arm falls away from Cole’s shoulders. “Is this at all to do with the part where everyone calls you a demon or is it something else? Because I’ve tried to work it out and it’s either that or--”

Or my mark, Cole hears in the sudden silence. The fingers of his right hand twist into the wrappings that cover his left. His left ankle hooks around his right.

“I don’t think I’m a demon.” he says quietly. Though he is not so sure of that anymore, when Krem has a gash all the way through him that is Cole’s fault. Spirits do not hurt people and if Cole is not a spirit that only leaves one other option.

“So you’re not leaving me alone out of some weird idea that it’ll stop rumours happening. Or will protect me or stupid shit like that.”

It’s not a question. Cole shakes his head anyway.

“Good. Cause otherwise I’d have to hit you.”

When Cole looks at Krem out of the corner of his eye, the man’s head is tilted towards Cole, but only enough that Cole can be seen at all. The rest of him is slumped, hands crossed in front of Krem’s chest.

He doesn’t speak again. Lips pursed tight around a single word that Krem refuses to say. Cole can see the shape of it regardless, trapped behind unsure longing. And Cole realises that Krem already hurts so much. The only thing Cole can do to ease the pain is tell him why.

“You don’t want me.” he says into the stillness.

“What?”

“You think that it’s a shackle. A rope of thread around your neck that contains and cuts. You don’t want it.” Cole fumbles with his wrappings, until his hand is bare. Krem looks at it, traces the sweep of the thick lines that span up Cole’s knuckles with narrowed eyes.

“Why are you showing me this?”

“So you understand why it hurts. And why I can’t be near you any more.”

“Bullshit.” Krem snarks, He still doesn’t understand. “Your marks got nothing to do with us being friends. I don’t give a shit about it, ‘specially not that your soulmates too much of an arse to realise you’re a catch. I’m not going to stop hanging around with you cause of that. If you hadn’t noticed my mark’s just as--”

“You don’t want me,” Cole repeats, not unkindly.

Krem’s mouth snaps shut. “...Oh.”

 

* * *

 

“Oh,” Krem says and he feels like the biggest idiot in all of Thedas. He can’t stop looking at Cole’s mark. The two upward sweeps that make up a pair of horns. The blank space underneath where the name that should be there, glaring in its absence. Cole’s tucked his two middle fingers under his palm and it’s that, more than anything else that stops Krem from thinking of any denials of what the missing name should say.

He remembers making that gesture. He remembers how it had caught on with the rest of the company. He remembers how the first time Bull had seen it he’d laughed for hours and ruffled Krem’s hair, calling him the best lieutenant a guy could ask for.

He’s never made the horns up sign to Cole. There’d never been a time where it would have made sense to. And yet there it is, framed by the black of Cole’s soulmark. He’s dimly aware that Cole is speaking but Krem can’t tear his eyes away to really make sense of the words. There’s a black pit in his stomach. A memory of his dad and the script that sat below his ear. ‘A mistake’. That’s what they were. What all soulmarks were.

They could be nothing less when Krem’s is broken and Bull’s is blank, and Skinner’s is gone. And yet there it was. The thing that was meant to make Krem feel whole. Never mind that he’s already whole, and doesn’t need another person, some thing made by the maker to complete him. Krem isn’t broken! No matter what his soulmark is.

He can’t stop staring at it.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He flicks his eyes up to Cole’s face. “It wouldn’t have helped you to know,” Cole says.

“So--So what? You were going to just, hide this? Forever?”

“Yes.”

Krem gapes. “Why?”

“Because you don’t want me.” Cole smiles, and Krem doesn't understand even the slightest bit how Cole can smile right now. “I don’t mind. You should be happy.”

Right. Right of course that would be it. You only have to spend a few seconds with Cole to know that he thinks everyone else's feelings are more important than his own. Krem drops his head again, hands cradling his throbbing temples. He doesn’t know whether to be pissed or not. For one thing, Cole’s right. Krem doesn’t want him. Not like that. At least, he doesn’t think so.

He turns Cole’s hand so it’s palm up. He doesn’t know what to say. Everything he thinks up feels useless under the rock Cole’s dropped on him. All he knows is that if he keeps looking at the horns on the back of Cole’s hand he’ll start to go insane.

Shit. Shit what’s he meant to do now?

“Andraste’s tits,” Krem says, and then curses again in Tevene.

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know and he can feel Cole’s eyes boring into the side of his head and there’s an ache in his gut and his back.

He can’t do this.

He can’t--

 

* * *

 

Skinner raises her eyes when Krem storms past her. She’d been sitting at the bar, waiting for the lieutenant to come back with this friend that Skinner’s never seen in her life.

Apparently she has though. Which is weird. But apparently nothing to worry about in the long run. Since the friend’s also a friend of Bull’s. Weird magey bullshit is apparently the soup of the day.  

Krem doesn’t even look her way. Just bolts for the door.

“Oy!” Skinner yells. She knows Krem hears, he twitches slightly but doesn’t slow his pace. Skinner frowns, and slams her tankard onto the bar. “Put it on Bull’s tab,” She mutters to Cabot. “Oy! Krem!”

“Go away Skinner.” He shrugs off her hand when she catches up enough to reach for his shoulder. He won’t look at her. Hah, like that’ll get her to back off.

“Take it the talk with your boy went badly?”

“He’s not my boy!”

“Sure he isn’t-- hey are you crying?”

 

* * *

 

 

Cole raises a hand to his cheek. It’s shaking, he notes absently. When it comes away there’s water glistening on the fingertips. Oh.

He hadn’t known that he could do that.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things that were meant to happen: Krem and Cole having an actual argument. Followed by making up and being tentative friends.  
> Instead this happened. I blame them being idiots.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is unbetaed due to the fact that it contains thing Withpuppy doesn't want to read ever because triggers. Therefore I apologise for any errors that I may have missed, they are entirely my fault!  
> Also I ruined my wrists to get this chapter out on the deadline. oops?

Bright blue eyes, wide with hurt and understanding. Black ink stretching across the back of a hand. The blank space where a name should be and wasn't. A twist of pain that started in Krem’s gut and filled his temples with a headache. Fairy tales and Tevinter sayings and the knowledge that this is---

Soft lips pressed against his own. Fingers running over the plane of hard muscles. Sparking sensation, mouth opening in a gasp, as hands anchored in brown hair and lips opened to swallow down an aching---

Krem wakes up. Face hot and breath coming in short, panting bursts. “Fuck,” he says into the stillness of the early morning. “Fuck.” 

It’s been three days. 

Every night Krem’s been assaulted by the memories of  _ that conversation. _ Everything made so much worse thanks to the dreams insistence of focusing on the absolute worst parts of what Krem is determinedly not thinking of as one of the worst days in his life. 

It isn’t. He’s had worse. He’s done worse. Discovering that some invisible, malicious force was the sole reason he’d made friends with one of the most interesting people in Skyhold has absolutely nothing on that moment of clarity in the tavern right before Bull had crashed into Krem's life.

But it sucks. The same way it sucks that Krem's back aches all the time these days, and he’s starting to reconsider the whole straight thing. Mostly in part to the fact the Commander decides to train shirtless in the training field next to where Krem takes his mending. Or maybe it’s Krem who decides to do his mending next to where the Commander trains shirtless. Either way the result is the same. 

Muscles gleaming with sweat and the show of an effortless grace as Krem fucks up a backstitch thanks to his inattention. 

Which is another really weird thought but considering the other set of Krem’s recent dreams he’s given up on his life ever making sense. There’s only so much a man can take when his dreams are filled with blonde hair and clever fingers and… and things that make Krem’s sheets annoyingly sticky when he wakes up. Anyway, it’s not like the entire keep doesn’t already think Krem and the Commander are having trysts when everyone has their backs turned. 

Cullen at the very least has nothing to do with the curse running down Krem’s back. 

He closes his eyes, sighs heavily, and get’s ready for morning practice. 

 

* * *

 

Practice ends up being cancelled--Bull is back in Skyhold. The Chargers, as one mass of armoured chaos, jump him as soon as they get in sprinting distance of the training field where Bull is grinning at them. 

Krem ends up hanging from a massive bicep, a matching grin all the way across his face. As crap as Krem’s life has been lately Bull home without any new injuries is a cause to celebrate. 

“Hey kids,” Bull says, “Daddy’s home.” 

The Chargers groan. Skinner, perched on Bulls’ shoulder, jabs him in the neck. 

“How was dragon fighting?” Krem asks once the ensuing scuffle dies down again. Only Skinner managed to keep her place on Bull’s body. Everyone else having to admit defeat when Bull let his arms drop to his sides. 

“Are you sure you wanna know the answer to that?” Dalish calls. She’d managed to go flying at one point, and now has her arse firmly planted on a training dummy’s shoulders. “Cause I remember the last time that question got asked and it was waaaay more detail than I ever needed to know.”

Bull leers, “Well it wasn’t the  _ dragon  _ that was really exciting this time..”

Krem claps his hands over his ears, “I don't want to know.” He says over the laughter, “At all. Ever.”

“So you don’t want to find out how Sera managed to steal Solas’s staff and put it somewhere  _ really unfortunate? _ .”

“No. Especially since that is not what you were gonna say,” Krem banters back. He puts his hands on his hips and cocks his head upwards. He can’t stop grinning. 

“It might have been,”

“You are so full of shit.”

“Bull shit.” Dalish relishes.

“That joke got old ages ago,” Skinner tosses back, “you need to expand out.” 

“Hmm… Bullcrap?” 

Rocky contributes something so filthy that it makes everyone in hearing distance burst into peals of laughter. A number that only just includes Krem. Rocky’s always had the problem of getting volumes wrong, thanks to a lifetime of talking over explosions and under precarious rocks. It makes it hard for Krem’s ears to really get a read on anything he says unless it’s the inevitable “DUCK” right before the scenery explodes. 

Krem’s gotten really good at noticing that one over the years. 

Bull looks good, Krem notes in that absent way that gets him called a mother hen when Skinner notices. Not that she can talk, when Bull and Stitches are so much worse than Krem is. 

He’s really not injured at all; impressive considering how long he’s been gone and the damage that dragons are usually capable of dealing. That’s one of the good things about mages; they really cut down on nasty accidents during battle. It’s one of the reasons Dorian doesn’t really ping Krem as suspicious, for all that he is an altus. If he was the type of arse that made up most of the imperium, Bull would already be dead or under some weird blood thrall spell. 

No matter how much Bull insists that he can handle Pavus, Krem doesn’t believe it. Bull’s sharing a bed with the mage, and that changes the rules from the war that Bull is basing all his experiences on. While Krem had grown up close enough to the seedier places of the city to know exactly the type of damage a magister could do when given the opportunity to. An opportunity that Bull gives practically every night. 

But the feathers reaching across his shoulder still don’t have a name attached to them. And Krem doesn’t know whether to feel vindicated, disappointed or something else entirely. The entire keep can tell their absolutely smitten for each other. So it strikes Krem as odd, that Dorian’s name doesn’t streak across Bull’s shoulder, like they obviously should do. 

Then again, he’s proven more than enough times that Krem knows fuck all about how soulmarks work. 

In the end practice is cancelled entirely. Everyone too hyped up on Bull’s return to handle sharp weapons safely, or unsafely Stitches adds with the grimace of someone who has had to put together too many friends thanks too many stupid training accidents. Usually by this point they’d all go to the tavern for drinks, but Bull swings an arm around Krem’s shoulders and, with a delighted leer, says that they’re going to have to postpone that for this evening. 

Krem raises a suspicious eyebrow, “And that has to do with me, what exactly?” 

“We need to talk.” Bull says. 

“About?” 

There’s a suspicious silence from the rest of the group. Krem can practically see their ears grow. 

“Let’s go to my room.” Bull says instead of answering the question. Krem has no choice but to follow. 

Shit, he thinks. This is not going to be a fun conversation; he can tell. 

When they enter, Bull makes a show of locking all three doors before sprawling on the bed. Krem leans against the door they entered from. It’s changed a lot since the last time Krem helped lug up a bunch of furniture when Bull had first picked it out as his. 

There’s a set of makeup on the dresser. Silk robes draped over a chair, a set of boots that wouldn’t fit Bull in a million years. Little signs that the room belongs to Dorian as well as Bull. 

Bull who is smiling at Krem in a way that would be disarming if Krem didn’t know him better than that. Krem swallows, uncomfortable fear sticking in his throat. 

“What?” He says. 

Bull laughs, “Well that defensive.”

Krem bristles. “Was not.” 

“Are you hearing yourself?” Bull says, an observation more than a question. Krem ignores it. 

“What is so important that you dragged me into your room to talk about?” 

“Skinner says you’ve been sulking.” 

“I am not!”

Bull raises an eyebrow, and he smirks just a little. Krem closes his eyes and knocks his head against the door. Great, he’s lost now. No way is Bull going to let him go when something clearly has him on edge enough to yell. Fucking traitorous Skinner. “I hate you.” 

“Aww, you don’t mean that.” Bull pats the bed next to his knee, “C’mon, sit down and tell me what’s wrong.” 

“You hate feelings talk,” Krem points out, but sits down with a grudging air. There’s no way he’s going to get out of this so he may as well stop trying. “Unless it involves a stick and a whole lot more hitting than whatever this is.”

“Would that help?” Bull asks. Krem’s only half sure it’s a joke. 

“No.” He returns just in case, “I’m not actually insane.”

“Heeey, it’s not for that.”

Krem raises an eyebrow. “Right.” 

“Really.” But then Bull winks which sort of ruins the message. Krem can’t help the snort that escapes him. 

“We could always pretend to have the feelings talk,” He offers.

“And miss the chance to make you go all red and spluttery? No way.” 

“I don’t splutter.” His nose wrinkles, “Fine, if you’re so bothered about it. What do you want?”

“Telling me why I have a nug made of plaidweave on my pillow would be a good start.” Bull holds up said Nug and makes a pouty face, “Why did you make me in yellow dad, what did I do to you?” He continues in a high falsetto. 

Krem bats at the nug, “Dorian is definitely rubbing off on you.”

“Ohhhh yeah.”

“Gross.” 

The nug ends up on his lap when Bull throws it at him. Krem sighs at it, and has to admit that the thing is as ugly as sin. One of the reasons Krem had given it to Bull in the first place. 

He sits in silence for a bit, trying to work out how much of this he can get away with. Not a lot most likely; since he’s already ranted to Dalish and Skinner about the first half of it. But maybe... well Krem’s always been a bit optimistic about how much he can lie about to figures of authority. 

“I’ve just been having weird dreams lately.” He says. 

“About?”

Fuck. 

Krem relaxes his now too tense posture, “Stuff. What’s it matter?” 

“A lot if Skinner’s worried enough to make me talk to you about it.” Bull observes. He shifts closer to Krem, in what is probably meant to be comforting. Maybe. Bull’s crap at feelings talk when it comes in this form. 

“It’s really nothing. Just--dreams.”

“Weird dreams.”

“Yeah.” There’s an endless silence. Krem groans, “Really? You have to know more?” 

Bull shrugs, “Well yeah. Can’t help with shit if you don’t tell me anything.”  

Krem looks down at the nug. It’s got blue eyes, and it kind of feels like they're judging him now. Like the way the one’s in his dreams don’t. But he can’t say that, he can’t let Bull that near. Not now, not when his head still aches with all of it. He bites his lip, considering, and decides to ruin the other part of his life. 

“How’d you know if you like men?” There’s the reflexive flinch that comes from admitting something that in Tevinter might have killed him. No matter how far away they are and how long it’s been since Krem’s really given a shit about those rules. There’s still a part of him that cringes at his bound breasts and thinks ‘if someone finds out you’re dead’ and doesn’t let him change in front of people he doesn’t already trust. It’s the part of him that doesn’t really mind that Dorian doesn’t do more than smile at Bull in public, far too aware of what even smiling in the wrong place and time could do to you in Tevinter. 

Bull however, having never been raised in the shitshow that is Krem’s place of birth, laughs hugely and says, “What you mean you didn’t already know?” 

“Fuck you!” Krem replies, hurt enough that Bull at least takes him seriously enough to hum and say, 

“Well the part where I thought “hey I wanna suck your cock” was a pretty good hint.” 

That’s… way too close to the dreams that Krem has been having recently. It must show on his face because the next thing Bull says is, “Y’know if you want tips I can--”  
“If you finish that sentence I will never mend your shit again,” Krem says. He resists the urge to cover his ears. He’s not quite that childish. Or that traumatised about Bull’s sex life. He thinks. It’s hard to tell sometimes. 

“You dreaming about anyone in particular?” 

...Krem should have expected that question. He really should have, but there’s a good half of him that reels at being asked that. And he’s sure the panic shows on his face. “Oh, No one,” He tries regardless of the fact he is certain that this is not going to work, “Just, dreams you know? No one significant in them at all!”

Just hair the colour of wheat, and wide eyes and lips that Krem wouldn’t mind kissing until they were red and swollen. He bites his lip and tries not to think about it. 

“Your soulmate?” 

Krem flinches, “What? What’s that got to--what’s he got to do with anything?” 

No. Just. No. Krem doesn’t even let himself think about that. 

Bull makes another one of his expansive shrugs, “You’re starin’ at my shoulder again and asking about men. Figured that maybe you’d worked out who it was and were having a crisis about it.” 

He has to bite down on laughter. “No. No, really no.” His eyes scrunch up, the awful sense memory of Cole’s lips forming, “You don’t want me. I don’t mind.” And black ink with it’s telling emptiness and the truth of all of that together. There’s something sharp at the corners of his vision. 

“But someone. Yeah?” 

Anything is better than Bull knowing what’s in his head, “Cullen.” He says. And he tips back on the bed, arms going up to cover his eyes and grimace, “Fucking Cullen Rutherford. With his-- stupid face and muscles and blue eyes and blonde hair that falls into them sometimes and-- and hasn’t got anything to do with the fucking  _ mess _ on my back.” 

It’s not entirely a lie. Krem has been spending a lot of time around the Commander. Maybe that is a crush. Maybe it’s different when you have a crush on a man. He’s only really had a crush on one girl anyway, and that was ages ago. Maybe he’s just forgotten what it’s like. 

“Cullen,” Bull repeats, like he’s measuring the name for it’s worth. 

Well, Krem’s said it now. He’s got to stick with it. 

“Yeah. Him. I’ve been avoiding everyone cause I’ve been working near the training field.” Not that he’d realised he’d been doing that until just now. Never mind the fact that it’s more that if he did mending he had an excuse not to go to the tavern. 

“So you’re staring at my mark for what? Measuring up my biceps with your pretty boy?” 

A hand lands on his hair, ruffling it into disarray. Krem mumbles something in complaint but doesn’t really care. The hand is nice; grounding. Even as the lie (It isn’t a lie) sits heavy in his stomach. 

“Something like that.” He offers. 

“You should tell him.” Bull says. That’s what Bull always says when someone asks him about relationship shit. It’s really hypocritical of him, Krem observes. 

“Yeah. Maybe.” 

Laughter, again. Krem’s life isn’t really this funny it it? Bull’s hand grasps his skull and shakes him slightly. “No really you should. Mark or not, you’d get an orgasm out of it.” 

“That’s disgusting.” 

“It’s true.” 

Krem lets his arm fall away from his eyes to glare at Bull. His lips are quirked in some sort of tentative smile though so the effect is probably ruined, “Yeah? And what if I want to court him?”

“You don’t.” 

Mean. If true. Krem’s dreams haven’t exactly involved much of exchanging love poems. “I might do.” 

“Then at the end it still ends with you coming. Or it had better. Otherwise I’d need to have a talk to him about treating our Krem-puff right.” 

He has to groan at the awful nickname, “No, no you don’t.” 

“I do.”

“If you do I will fall on my sword out of sheer embarrassment.” 

“And Stitches will put you back together and no one will ever let you live it down,” Bull counters cheerfully, “So you better get good sex so I don’t have to have that conversation.” 

“Fine,” Krem waves his arm lazily. “I’ll talk to him and get mind blowing sex and you’ll critique my lack of using ropes or whips or whatever the hell is in your weird chest that I am still traumatised from the last time you brought it out. Even though I am telling you nothing about what happened.” He hoists himself until he’s upright again and flashes a lazy salute. “Since my love life is suddenly so important to everyone.”

“Good boy.” Bull claps Krem’s back hard enough that it topples him forwards slightly. “Don’t be late for drinks tonight. No skipping, even if you are in the middle of sex.” 

“I won’t.” But talking about being late he should probably start to make his way to the training field to critique his idiots. Not that he’s really late for anything but he likes making them feel bad by insinuating they’ve made him wait far too long for them. It means he gets to assign a punishment: Always extra laps. . Krem was always an excellent sergeant like that.

“I gotta go.” 

Bull waves him away. He’s grinning still and Krem lets his face mirror it. “Go, torture your poor soldiers.”

Krem waves back, reaching for the door. 

“Oh, and Krem?”

“Yeah?”

“Cullen’s eyes are brown.” 

Krem blinks, “Yeah. I know.” He shuts the door behind him. On the way down the battlements he realises, and curses. 

He’d said that they were blue. Venhedis!

 

* * *

 

Cullen shows up halfway through Krem’s training of the idiots. He has them running laps at the time, their second pair today, because someone had the bright idea of calling him a ‘vint bastard loud enough that Krem could hear it. Since none of them would own up, all of them are taking the blame. 

Judging by the glares, Krem’s just about pegged who the culprit is: An Orlesian who joined a few days ago. He’s wearing a mask that pegs him for one of the more noble types; something that is not going to win him points considering the rest of Krem’s idiots are mostly Fereldan. He clearly doesn’t know how to run properly, and Krem idly wonders why he bothered joining at all considering that the Inquisition’s army is not exactly the most illustrious place to be. 

Maybe it’s the fashion now to join up. Krem hopes not; he’s already got too many recruits who don’t know the pointy end of a sword. He doesn’t need any more. 

Cullen is a sneaky bastard when he wants to be, and as a result it takes Krem to turn around before he realises that the man has been leaning against the low wall for who knows how long. 

Krem manages not to start, but it’s a close thing. Thank the Maker for Skinner and her ability to walk without making noise, he thinks. Together Skinner and Cole have just about gotten rid of the reflexive urge to stiffen and throw things into the air at the sight of a familiar person. 

“Hey. Commander!” Krem says. He tries smiling but it doesn’t really work. Too awkward. 

“Cremisius,” Cullen returns. 

“Krem, actually. Pretty sure I’ve told you that before.” He has to stick his hands in his pockets to stop them from doing something stupid, like run through his hair. Cullen is looking at him with the kind of detached air of someone on a job. Which is… good. Yeah, means that there’s a reason he’s here and not just staring at Krem like--- well like Krem has been doing at him. Oops. 

“Ah, yes. Krem.” Cullen corrects, “How are the recruits?” 

“Awful as per usual,” Krem gestures at the group of them running around the field, “better than before but I’m not sure I’d trust them to cover me in a real fight yet.”

Cullen frowns, pursing his lips. Krem tilts his head, examining that expression. 

“Is something wrong?”

“We’re going to be attacking Adamant in a couple of weeks,” Cullen answers. 

Adamant, the name is familiar, but it takes Krem a moment to connect the name to anything significant. 

“You’re kidding.” He says, “Really? The Warden fortress? Are you insane?” 

Cullen offers a wry smile, “I wish. Unfortunately Corypheus has infected the Wardens and we have no choice.”

“...Right.” Krem looks back at his recruits, if he’s got his numbers right this is their second to last laps now. “You wanted to make sure they were up to snuff then.” 

Cullen nods. “What’s your judgement of them?”

Krem frowns, thinking it through. It’s not a fun equation. They’re going to need all the help they can get if they’re storming the legendary Warden fortress, but a man who can’t fight properly is more a hindrance than a help. The fact that Cullen is asking him at all is not a good sign. Obviously he’s hoping that Krem will say they can battle and the ranks will inflate by 15 more men. Not a large amount but the Chargers are smaller than that and they can do enough damage if given the opportunity to. 

But the recruits Krem is training…. They’re eager sure, otherwise they would have washed out by now. But ready? Well some days Krem’s not sure if it’s safe to give a third of them training weapons. 

“No. I wouldn’t take them unless you had to.” He says. Cullen’s expression doesn’t change; Krem is telling him something he already knew. “When’s this battle happening?”

“We haven’t quite got the timing sorted yet.” 

So it’s one of those sieges. Wonderful, this is one of the reason’s Krem vastly prefers the Chargers instead of bigger armies. Here at least he doesn’t have to wait too much for all the other bits of the operation to fit all together. 

Of course that’s more because the Chargers don’t prepare, more than because they don’t need to. But between Rocky and Skinner and Bull, planning goes out the window far too fast for it to ever be worth it. 

“You got any idea at all?” 

“Most likely less than a month. We want to hit them as soon as we’re able to.” 

“Then no. They won’t be ready. I’m good, but not good enough to whip them into shape in that time.” At Cullen’s grimace Krem offers up an apology. He claps the other man on the shoulder, “Hey, you’ve got the rest of the army together. You’ll be fine.” 

Cullen’s eyes skitter to the point of contact Krem still has on his arm. His face twists slightly, in an expression that Krem can’t quite work out. “I hope so,” He says, heartfelt. “You should better get back to them.” 

“Hm?” The idiots are staring, obviously done with their laps now. “Right, I’ll--do that.” 

The Commander stays through the drills. Every so often Krem gets the uncomfortable feeling that he’s being stared at. If he’s not lying, shouldn’t he be happy about being noticed like this? 

But instead there’s just kind of this itching between his shoulderblades. And Krem can’t help but think about the itching of his soulmark. So low grade these days that he’s just about ignored it for the most part. He yells at the recruits, going through the motions now. There’s no way he can focus on really teaching past making sure no one really injures themselves when his head keeps helpfully reminding him that the man he’s supposed to be madly in lust with is looking at him. 

Studying him, it feels like. 

Well. Well he’s just nervous because after this session he’s going to ask Cullen-- something. Whatever it is that people ask to get other people into their bed. Maybe for drinks? That’s what Bull does, before he inevitably disappears into a bedroom. And hey, there’s the excuse of the celebration of Bull being back for Krem to use. Yeah. 

Yeah he can ask Cullen for drinks. 

He smiles, kind of uncertain, and he tells himself it’s just nerves. 

Nothing interesting happens during the rest of practice. Though Krem gets some odd looks from the recruits thanks to Cullen’s presence. If they have any comments though, Krem doesn’t hear them. He now has something much more important to think about.

He turns to the Commander, “Um, hi.” And then his hand does go up to rub the back of his head. He’s doing this. He is, because if he doesn’t Bull will laugh and tease and maybe if he dates Cullen Krem can forget all about his mark and how Cole had looked and that horrible mess of feelings that hasn’t quite dissipated yet. 

“Hello.” Cullen says, a bemused air in his voice.  

“Would you like to… uh, go for a drink with me?” He falters, and then because he’s an idiot, and because he doesn’t want there to be any kind of miscommunication here, continues with, “On like, I guess a date?” 

Cullen’s eyes are brown, and Krem gets to see every fleck of it when they widen to almost comical levels. 

“I’m sorry. What?” 

Krem bites at his lip. His hands falter, not sure where they should go. “Well Bull is back and we’re--the Chargers--are celebrating and I thought that maybe you’d like to…” 

Cullen is staring at him, and he mutters something that looks a little like, “Maker and I thought Leliana was joking.” Which---creepy. Just a little. Krem ignores it and hopes he read it wrong. 

In the back of Krem’s head he can hear Bull, maybe cheering him on, maybe just being lewd. It’s hard to tell with Bull, imaginary and real. But it makes Krem rally all his thoughts together and manage to get out, “I’m asking if you want to go on a date with me. I guess. If that would be okay.” 

Cullen is still staring, wide eyed and… oh Krem knows that expression now. Cullen’s looking at him with horror. 

Krem hadn’t been aware he was that unattractive. 

“I’m sorry,” Cullen says. “I’m flattered but I’m not interested in men.” He says it very faintly, and Krem has to guess the last bit but he’s already really got the gist now.

“Oh. Well. Okay.” Krem smiles. He wishes the ground would swallow him up round about now. “Well, no hard feelings. Feel free to join in anyway. Not as a date and I’m just… Sorry.” 

And then he escapes. 

Well. There went that excuse, some part of him says almost cheerfully. It isn’t an excuse, Krem thinks, but the relief he’s feeling instead of what he knows should be more like heartbreak or at least disappointment doesn’t really help. 

Cullen’s eyes are brown. 

In Krem’s dreams the eyes are always light blue. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how long this took. I was sick, and then I had so much coursework I had a panic attack. But to make up for it this one is twice as long.  
> This fic is tentatively on hiatus until my coursework is complete though (don't worry, you only miss a month; the deadline is June 30)  
> Unbetaed: I'm going on holiday in literally 2 hours, and my beta is NAPPING.
> 
> Oh! And also the lovely Skyorin has made a podfic of this! currently it's a chapter long but yes, it is indeed a thing and should be linked at the end of this work, or at my works page.

Cullen is not at the Tavern when Krem arrives. Stepping through the door just as the sun slips down below the mountains that cradle Skyhold. He’s late-- thanks to getting caught up in mending and his own thoughts. The rest of the chargers are already crowded around one of the corner tables. 

Some of the Inquisitor’s inner circle have also joined: Dorian is snuggled into the Bull’s side ;  Sera is perched on a nearby stool; Varric is sitting across from Grim, a deck of cards between them; And next to Varric is the exact last person that Krem wants to see right now. 

Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Venhedis if he as idiot for ever thinking he was dreaming of someone else. 

Worse, Krem realises that the only free seat is next to Cole. The universe hates Krem. Or more accurately Bull does considering the leering wink he tosses Krem’s way when Krem gives in and sits down on the bench. He glares back, not that it will do anything except tell Bull he’s right. Fuck. 

Fuck if Krem does not want to be here right now. Off the top of his head he can think of a hundred things he would rather be doing than sitting next to Cole. Like digging latrines. Or killing giants. Or mending every single torn sheet in Skyhold. Anything but this. Anything but be reminded of the tangle that this friendship has turned into. 

There’s already an argument flying around the table. A natural consequence of being the Chargers, half the inner circle, and enough drink to make even a dragon walk funny the next day. It’s hard to understand, since half of it is in the Orlesian slang that Skinner and Sera share as a common language, and some of the jokes don’t translate into Trade very well. 

As far as Krem can tell though, it’s mostly concentrated on “the cute arcanist blowing shit up in the basements” that Sera has a crush on. 

“I do not!” 

“You were practically drooling over her tits,” Dalish says, with a knowing grin, “I saw you.” 

Sera glares. “Was not.”

Bull leans across the table. “Do I need to be worried you two are hanging around together near dangerous shit? Together?”

“No,” Dalish and Sera say in unison. 

“That was comforting,” Krem says, grinning at them, “What have you been doing in the undercroft?”

“None of your business,” Sera says. 

Dalish fixes Krem with a shit eating grin, “Mooning over the arcanist.” She tosses an arm around Sera’s shoulders. “Dagna and Sera, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I---oof!”

Sera launches herself at Dalish, the momentum sending both of them to the floor and out of Krem’s sight. He can just about hear the sounds of a scuffle, and the manic giggling of Dalish. 

Skinner, raising her eyebrows as she looks down to the floor says, “Do I need to be worried?” to the world at large. 

“If you get their shirts off we can charge money for the show,” Bull suggests. 

Dalish’s head pops up, face red and still grinning, “I thought we weren’t allowed to freak out the Inquisition soldiers.” 

From the floor Sera pipes up “I get half the cut if there’s any gold being made off me.” 

“Then it’s good that no one is going to be looking at us for you,” Dalish says. “Want us to go get your arcanist?”

Sera growls, and Dalish’s head disappears under the table again. They’re both still giggling, so no one at the table worries too much about what’s going on. 

Varric, out of sight of Krem and in that half to himself tone that doesn’t quite get registered says, “A dashing rogue, on her journey through causing mayhem and chaos through all the nobility, meets her mark on a… hmm, I’m going to have to think about this.”

“Hidden glances behind tools and stolen treasures. A smile that she thinks won’t be noticed but lights up the rest of the day like sunshine. Bees and bombs and bedlam.” Cole says. 

Krem’s spine straightens in a tense flinch. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Cole glance at him, frown and drop his gaze to the table. Krem’s eyes close, just for a brief second. He feels like the absolute worst person in the world. 

But he doesn’t know what to do. Every time Cole opens his mouth, every time Krem looks at him he’s back in that alcove. Black ink spread across a pale hand and it’s not fucking fair. He’s seen what soulmarks do, too many times for him to ever trust them. If he’s going to fall in love he’s doing it for himself, not because of some mystical power telling him what to do. 

He forces himself to relax, at least to the point where Bull isn’t narrowing an eye at him. 

“I can use bees,” Varric is saying, “Hey Buttercup, how would you use bees to wow someone?” 

Sera’s head pops up, followed swiftly by Dalish. Fight over for now. “No way are you using me in one of your shmoopy books.”  She waves vaguely at where Dorian and Bull are tangled together, “Don’t you have people to be creepy about already?”

Dorian scoffs, “No please ,  if I have to listen to one more rendition of--” his voice turns to a mocking falsetto, “The Tevinter Magister, The Qunari warrior, in a world pulling them apart will they ever be able to find love?” 

“I do not sound like that,” Varric points out.

Cole says, “Yes.” Soft and breathless. 

There’s a pause. The Chargers look around the table at each other. Varric smiles enigmatically. Dorian coughs into his hand, with a muttered phrase Krem can’t hear. Slowly, a grin stretches all the way across Bull’s face.  

“Aw, you really think that?” The arm tossed over Dorian’s shoulders presses the man into a hug. 

Dorian doesn’t look up from the table. “Well, apparently against my better judgement you have managed to worm your way into my life. I find that--” His eyes close, “Well I think it’s clearly been made apparent what I think.” 

“Unsure. Scared, but stronger every day. I am allowed to want this.” 

“Thank you Cole,” Dorian says. With an infinite patience. “Now please, out of my head.” 

“Yeah Cole,” Sera sneers, “why’d you have to be such a fucking creep about everything?” She perches herself on her previously discarded stool. Her eyes narrowed at the boy across from her.

“I don’t want to frighten you,” Cole says. His eyes wide and earnest. 

“Then stop being creepy,” Sera stresses. “Shite like anyone would want to be near you willingly. Why don’t you get back to haunting your corner and sneaking around. Away from me!” 

The other conversations around the table go quiet. Krem looks down, heart beating too quickly for an argument that doesn’t involve him. 

“Sera,” Varric warns. 

“No,” Sera says. She’s frowning, and doesn’t turn away from Cole. “‘S not right. Why are you even here anyways?” 

“I was invited.” Cole’s hands on the table curl into tight fists. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Bull interrupts. “Sera back off. If you can’t be nice you can go.” 

There’s a moment where Sera’s face twists. Nose scrunching into a scowl. She looks at Bull, mutinous. Bull stares back, placid in the quiet, commanding way he gets when someone is being trouble. Krem’s only had the expression trained on him a few times. Every time it makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end. 

Sera’s gaze drops. She slouches back in her chair with a  dramatic huff.  “Fine. But I don’t see why you’re bothering with him.” 

If Krem was a better friend he’d defend Cole right now. He’d make some remark that would make everyone laugh, diffuse the tension. He’s been a lieutenant, and a sergeant before that, long enough he knows how to do it without causing too much mess. 

Krem looks at the grain of the wood table. He raises his tankard and takes a drink. Problem: he’s probably not Cole’s friend anymore. His mouth twists, and he puts that thought aside for when he’s not got Bull watching his every move. 

An empty silence stretches across the table. Earlier tension building up and not allowed to have an outlet. It’s Varric, eventually, who shrugs his shoulders and says, “So I hear you guys don’t play Wicked Grace.” 

The oppressive silence eases. “Yeah,” Dalish says. She’s sitting next to Skinner again, “Got too easy when some people,” She glares at Rocky, “Keep counting the cards.” 

“Not my fault the game's rigged so the dealer has an advantage.”

“It is when you always deal,” Dalish snipes back. 

“Hey, if someone didn’t keep putting the Angel of Death down their top I wouldn’t have to.”

Varric laughs, “If it wasn’t Hawke doing that it was Rivaini,” he shakes his head. “Not that it helped Hawke win mind you.” 

Skinner smirks, “Never helps Dalish win either.” 

“You are the worst girlfriend.” Dalish frowns dramatically. “Why don’t you put your money where your mouth is and prove it.” 

“Yeah? You wanna lose all your coin again?” 

Krem looks up from the table, “What coin?” he asks, “Aren’t we still getting IOU’s?” 

“We can trade those,” Dalish says. “Who’s got the cards?” 

There’s a general shuffle in pockets for a decent set. Sera puts down her own (vetoed since all the face cards are naked women), Grim’s (in some weird language that only Grim understands), and Varric’s which are actually usable. 

“Never know when you need a good deck,” Varric says, shuffling the cards with a practiced ease. “Now who's playing?” 

A flurry of hands go up, Krem included. He’s not the best at cards but it’ll help get his mind of--everything. He hopes anyway. 

Varric goes around the table, so Krem ends up the last person to get his. Bull isn’t playing, though Dorian is, and Stitches gave up winning years ago so he’s out. Dalish and Skinner smirk at each other when they gain their hands. Rocky peers at Varric’s hands, hums softly and folds immediately. 

Varric pauses when he gets to Cole, “You in, kid?”

Cole’s head shakes, “I don’t know the rules.”

“Krem could teach you,” Skinner says in a deliberately, too casual tone of voice. 

Krem’s head jerks away from his hand (trash, as per usual but he might be able to bluff his way out.) “What?” 

“What?” Skinner parrots back at him, “You taught me how to play your fancy ‘vint game, you can teach Wicked Grace.” 

“Fancy ‘Vint game?” Dorian queries, He leans forwards, resting his elbows on the table.  Behind him Bull’s shoulder is clearly visible, and so is the name written on it.

Krem stares. Far longer than is polite. He blinks, swallows and tries to ignore the sudden ache in his chest. Not now, really, he can’t think about that now. 

“Magister’s table,” Krem supplies, “lost the cards and chips for it to a bunch of squirrels though.” 

“Now that sounds like a story,” Varric says. 

Krem’s nose wrinkles, “I don’t want to talk about it. Skinner, really why can’t someone else?”

“Varric’s dealing, and everyone else cheats,” Skinner shrugs, “You’ve got a decent chance of explaining so it makes sense. And he’s sitting right next to you.” 

I really can’t--”

“Why not?” Skinner’s tone makes the question into a challenge. 

Because I don’t want to, is not an excuse Krem can use. He doesn’t have a better one, even after he buys time by scowling down at his cards. “Fine,” he snaps, “Cole, Come over here, you can watch over my shoulder for a few games.” 

Cole looks warily at him, “If you don’t want--”

“Just get over here,” Krem interrupts. He smiles, and hope it doesn’t look as tight as it feels, “How much do you know about Wicked Grace?” 

“None.” Cole says. He frowns, eyes flicking across the table. “Vices and virtues. But I don’t know why that’s important I could--”

“Stay here.” Krem orders absently. The half-forgotten habit of halting Cole before he can go off on a tangent making it’s way to the surface again. “Just look at my cards. See the numbers?”

Around him the game has started, Sera first. Krem puts half an eye to it. Enough to know that Sera’s hand is as shit as his own judging by her grimace. 

“Yes. In the corners, with their families. They want to be together.” 

“Right.” Krem nods. “So when it’s my turn I draw from the deck,” he tilts his free hand towards it, “And if it’s useful I trade it for something else. Angels are the best, then Knights, Songs, Daggers and Snakes. Four of a kind is what we’re aiming for, but pairs are more likely.”

“Most of your hand is snakes,” Cole observes. 

 “And I’m teaching you how to bluff next game,” Krem sighs. He drops his hand face down. “You’re not meant to tell people what you’re playing with.”  

“You wouldn’t have won,” Cole says, “Death is hiding in Varric’s pocket.” 

Dorian pauses in the middle of folding. “Of course it is,” he sighs. “Varric, did you stack the deck as well?” 

Varric’s hands go out in a shrug, “Hey, you’re all the ones who didn’t think to watch my hands while I was shuffling. You’re not meant to say when people are cheating, kid.”

“No, you’re meant to yell at them and then hit them over the head,” Skinner says. She tosses over hers and Dalish’s hands face up. “Hah, told you I’d win.” 

Skinner’s hand is almost all angels. Dalish has the rest of the serpents that Krem wasn’t holding onto. 

She scowls, “that doesn’t count, that was all luck.” 

“And you would have spent the entire game trading out your shit cards for even shitter ones. I win.” 

Dalish considers the other woman, “Win what?” 

All Skinner does is smirk lasciviously. Dalish’s face turns tomato red.

“That’s the other reason we don’t play Wicked Grace,” Rocky says. He picks up the discarded cards. “Cripple Mr Onion, anyone?” 

“I don’t know that game either,” Cole says. 

“I’ll teach you,” Krem says. After Skinner sends a meaningful glare his way, “‘S not that different from Wicked Grace. You’ll pick it up eventually.” 

By mutual agreement Dorian is the one who ends up shuffling 

 

* * *

 

About halfway through the second hand, Krem realises that Cole has somehow moved from being sat next to him to being pressed against Krem’s side. He’s warmer than Krem, a hot line down Krem’s side and a little bit of his back. There’s a sparking pressure there, across the ruined name that Cole is just not touching. 

Krem swallows. He tries to focus on his cards. It’s an okay hand, not the best but good enough he’s not willing to fold just yet. Cole is looking over his shoulder, trying to learn the complicated rules to the game. 

Sometimes he mutters under his breath at the cards. Like he’s having some kind of conversation with them. Sometimes it’s useful, when Krem can decipher the cryptic for tactics. Other times it’s terrible and broadcasts Krem’s hand to the rest of the table. It’s weird and maybe a little disturbing and Krem’s chest aches. Just a little with an emotion he doesn’t want to name. 

Across the table Skinner and Dalish have pooled resources, curled into each other and speaking in low voices across their doubled hand. It’s a usual scene. Something Krem’s seen a thousand of times before. Right now he can’t look at them for too long without having to drop his gaze. 

It’s stupid. It’s really, really stupid. 

Truth is, when Krem’s dreams aren’t being disturbing and guilt tripping, they’re here. Or--somewhere like here. This warm space where Cole’s mutterings are against Krem’s ear, and his fingers sometimes brush against Krem’s own when they reach for the cards. Where Krem can lean, just a little into the comforting line that is Cole’s side. 

Where it doesn’t matter that the mess on Krem’s back is and he doesn’t have to keep guessing if the warm feeling of everything being right is because this is what he wants, or because something in the fade thinks this is what he deserves. 

Cole’s head rests against Krem’s shoulder. 

“You’re wrong,” he says. Only audible because of how close he is. “I think I was too.” 

This is not the right place to have this conversation. Not when Bull is there, and the Chargers and Varric. Not when Krem’s head is still twisting itself into knots, and he’s not sure what to think. 

Because he wants this. He wants to know where the tentative friendship was going before it got all fucked up. He wants Cole sat across from him with wide eyes and smiling at the joke Krem’s just made. 

He just--

He wants it to be real too. But that’s always been the problem. How’s he meant to know if it’s real? 

“They don’t work like that,” Cole says. He slips his hand into Krem’s. A tiny, small little gesture that makes Krem’s heart just about stop. It’s not visible to the rest of the group, hidden as it is under the table. 

“Out of my head,” Krem says back. But he doesn’t really mean it. He doesn’t take his hand back. 

And every time Bull and Dorian share a smile, it feels like a knife going under Krem’s ribs. 

 

* * *

 

“The books with short words and big letters are on the other side of the library.” Dorian says archly. 

Krem jumps, “What?” 

“The books,” Dorian repeats. “Since I assume you aren’t interested in practical magical application nor theory, you have no business being near these shelves. What are you here for?” 

Krem looks at Dorian. Then at the book case. Then at the floor. He swallows thickly. 

“If you don’t tell me I’ll be forced to assume you’re up to no good. I’d rather not lose one of my sanctuaries if at all possible and there are members of the Inquisition that will naturally insist that we’re planning blood magic rituals. Especially considering you have been staring at the books pertaining to the field of studies adjacent to it for the last fifteen minutes.” 

“How’d you do it?” Krem says. Mostly to the floor at a dull mutter.

Dorian frowns at him, “Do what? Magic? Use big words? Trick good people into thinking I’m like them?” 

“Let your name show up.” 

“Ah.” Dorian’s eyes close. He looks pained for a second before his features smooth into something that might have been impassivity if Krem hadn’t seen what it was hiding. “That.” 

“Yeah,” Krem says, “That.”

“The downfalls of having a soulmate who forgoes shirts,” Dorian says ruefully. He looks at Krem with sharp eyes, “So. Are you going to accuse me of falsehood, magic or both?” 

Krem gives Dorian a confused look, “Have people been doing that?” 

“Not yet,” Dorian says evenly, “but I’ve found it’s only a matter of time. If you’re not here to hound me about it, what are you here for?” 

Krem--has no idea. It had seemed like a good idea when he’d woken up to the memory of long fingers trailing down his back. Not it just feels as ridiculous as everything else in his life recently. 

“You’re Tevinter.” he says. Feeling for a conversation just out of reach.

“No! I hadn’t noticed!”

“Can you stop being clever and just let me talk?” 

Dorian leans against the bookshelf, and makes a ‘go on then’ gesture. It’s utterly unhelpful. 

“I just--” Krem makes a frustrated sound, “You grew up with the stories didn’t you? That’s why Bull’s shoulder was blank for so long. I thought his mark had died somewhere. And then you show up and you’re prissy and everything I thought I’d left behind except when you’re not and-- how? How did you get through all that shit and then fall for--” He stops. He doesn’t even know what he’s trying to ask. Let alone word it so someone else will be able to understand. 

Dorian says, “What exactly did they teach you about soulmarks in Tevinter?” 

Krem relaxes minutely. Finally a question he knows the answer to, “Mistakes. Cruel tricks. Stupid shit that you have to ignore if you want your life to go anywhere.” 

Dorian regards him in silence. 

The tension in Krem’s back sharpens up again, “What?” 

“I’m just surprised.” He turns, “let's go somewhere else for the rest of this. No need for the entire keep to know all the details of my life. And yours come to think of it.” 

Krem doesn’t have any choice but to follow. 

Dorian doesn’t lead him to Bull’s room, thank the Maker. Instead they end up in what might have at one point been a storage room but has since been repurposed into a tiny bedroom. Dorian locks the door behind them. He sits on the bed and gestures at the small chair in the corner of the room for Krem. 

Krem turns it backwards and sits, resting his forearms on the high back of the chair. 

“I want you to know,” Dorian starts, “That for the longest time I thought that soulmarks were fictional. A childhood fantasy made by fools too stupid to see the way the world worked. Then I fell ill with a sudden fever and was shown the error of my ways. Then I had rather more problems to worry about than the revelation that they were not in fact a fairy tale, considering that my partner was most certainly Qunari. I’m sure I don’t have to explain why.”

Krem nods.

“Good. Then you’ll understand why I originally rejected him. It wasn’t safe. For either me or Bull. My father,” Dorian’s voice cracked. “My father would not have been kind. I didn’t want that life for the man I was destined to love.” 

“Destined.” Krem says. He looks down at the back of his hands. “How can you just accept that?” 

“I don’t.” 

Krem looks at Dorian, “Yeah? So you got chummy with the Chief because of what? From here it looks an awful lot like you accepting shit.”

Dorian smiles, his eyes misting with an emotion Krem can’t quite place. “I didn’t at first,” he says. “Bull is loud and crude and everything that I had told myself not to want. But--” Dorian shrugs. He looks away from Krem, to a corner of the room. “But he is kind and gentle and extremely clever when he wants to be. I didn’t want to stop spending time with him. Even when I knew it was dangerous. Even when I told myself every night that this would be the last time. Eventually I stopped telling myself that this wasn’t something I was allowed to have.” 

I am allowed to want this, Krem hears in Cole’s breathy voice. 

“I don’t get it,” he says.

Dorian is silent for a short while. He considers Krem with slightly narrowed eyes. Like he’s trying to get a read on something far away in the sun. 

“Cremisius, just because something tells you to do something, doesn’t mean that you should follow it’s advice without thinking through it. But it also means that you shouldn’t disregard that advice on the sole principle of being given it.” Dorian’s hand splays across his chest. “Especially if doing so is making you miserable.” 

“I’m not miserable.” Krem snaps. 

“Mm, but you did ask me about marks, when usually you can’t stand to hear my opinion on anything.” 

“No one else got it,” Krem says. “Thought at least you might…” he trails off. Still unsure what he wants. “How’d you  _ know _ ?”

“I liked spending time with him. Then everything else followed.” Dorian answers, “does that help at all?” 

No. Krem thinks, the immediate visceral reaction on being told something he already knew. What Dalish and Skinner tell him every day just by existing around each other. But that doesn’t make it any easier, any more tolerable when he still has all the bullshit from Tevinter in his head. 

He drops his head onto his crossed arms and groans. 

“You know, I’m surprised,” Dorian says. “I thought I was the one carrying Tevinter around with me.”

“Fuck off,” Krem says. He lifts his head and smiles wearily at Dorian, “You’d think I’d have learned that nothing I got told there is ever right.” 

“I find it helps to get drunk.” Dorian says. He wrinkles his nose, “At the very least it helps to remove the little doubts.” 

“Like the ones telling you that Bull’s room isn’t the greatest place to yell at till you get let in?” 

“Hush. We’re talking about your problems and not my past indiscretions.” 

“Yeah,” Krem’s smile falters, “I’ve been a real idiot about this.” 

“I think you’ll be forgiven.”

 

* * *

 

Krem stands at the bottom of the stairs to Cole’s alcove, and swallows. He feels, weirdly, like he’s going into a battle. There’s not the quiet anger, or the frustration that there had been last time. The emotions that had made him take the stairs two at a time like if he didn’t get there fast enough Cole would vanish. Instead there’s something like determination making Krem’s gut twist in on itself. The sense that this is it. If he gets this wrong then he doesn’t get to try again. 

Fine. Krem can live with that. 

He goes up the stairs. He feels weirdly calm. His heart doesn’t speed up, his palms don’t sweat, his breath stays the same measured pace that it usually does. 

In the corner of the balcony, curled into a corner, is Cole. He looks up, blue eyes wide under the shade of his hat when Krem gets close enough. A searching gaze flickers over Krem’s form. 

“Hello,” Cole says eventually. “You want to talk to me.” 

“Yeah,” Krem says. And then, the nerves start to come back, his heart leaping into his throat and making it hard to talk. “That okay?” 

“Probably. What do you want to talk about?” 

Krem sits down next to Cole. “I want to say sorry.”

“Why?” 

“Cause I’ve been a dick, and it’s not fair.”

Cole’s hand stills from where it’s been tracing circles against the wood floor. He tilts his head until Krem’s just in his peripheral vision. 

“You still don’t want me.” he says.

“This isn’t about that.” 

A disagreeing hum. 

“Okay, so not entirely about it. But I don’t give a shit anymore. I want to be friends with you. I don’t care if you’re a demon or a spirit or neither. I don’t care that you’ve got my mark. I liked being around you, I liked last night. I don’t want to go back to avoiding you just because of some shitty words.” 

When Cole looks at him Krem can’t work out what he’s thinking. He can’t look for more than a few seconds before he has to turn his gaze to the wall opposite them. “Or if you want I’ll leave you alone forever. I can understand if you don’t want me around at all.” 

“Wishing and wanting. The tangle twisting out of the confusing coils. And inside hope hides in apologies and choices that it doesn’t have to say.” 

“Um… yeah.” 

“It hurts less when I can be near you,” Cole says. “I’d like to be friends.”

A tension that Krem didn’t know he was holding leeches out of his shoulders. He smiles, just a little. Uncertain at the edges of it. 

“Hurts less for me or you?” Because he has to be sure. Has to know that he’s not being selfish about this. 

Cole inches closer, until their sides are touching, “Both. The jagged edges aren’t twisted together anymore.”

“Good.” Krem slides an arm around Cole’s shoulders. “That’s good.”

For the first time in what feels like a very long while, Krem feels his entire body relax. 

 

* * *

 

Cole curls into Krem’s side and feels the tension of weeks slide out of his muscles. He knows now, that it was wrong to avoid and abscond whenever Krem got close. He’s still afraid that he’ll change it. Or push or think that Krem wants something from him when it’s the mark tricking him. 

But Cole thinks that’s alright. Krem doesn’t want him. As long as Cole remembers that he can be Krem’s friend. Even if there is a hole in his chest that wonders what it would be like if Krem did want Cole to be more. 

He forgets the hole. He feels too much like a demon with it. And it doesn’t matter that it’s there. When Cole can lean into the weight of Krem’s arm is around his shoulders, and there’s a tentative treaty of peace written with every stroke of Krem’s fingertips. 

 

* * *

 

“So...Cole.”

“Yes the Iron Bull?”

“You and Krem have been… spending a lot of time together recently.” 

“Yes.”

“So…”

“I don’t understand the Iron Bull.” 

“You going to tell me what you’re up to with that?”

“I’m not up to anything.” 

“...Never mind.” 

 

* * *

 

“‘Lo Cole,” Krem says as he perches on the boxes that make up Cole’s little hidey hole. “Got you a thing.” 

Cole tilts his head in acknowledgement. “It isn’t a sandwich.” 

“What?” Krem’s nose wrinkles as he looks up at Cole, “Oh. That no, it’s not a sandwich. Though I don’t see what was so wrong with the last one I gave you.” 

“I don’t eat.” 

Krem snorts, “Yeah, I can tell. I can see your ribs through your shirt.” Then he frowns and reconsiders. “This is a demon-spirit-whatever thing isn’t it?” 

Cole considers him, mouth slightly open and eyes narrowed by a tiny amount. “You didn’t realise,” he says. 

“Yeah yeah, I’m blind and never notice anything. It’s not my fault you’re weird.” He leans against the crates, “Get down here, you’re giving me a crick in my neck. You’re tall enough without the advantage of me sitting down.” 

He ends up looking at hat, the broad brim of it covering the rest of Cole’s body as he folds himself onto the floor. Krem rolls his eyes, reaching out to pluck the thing from Cole’s head. 

“You say words that should hurt but you don’t arm them with the right feelings.” Cole's eyes are crinkled further, narrowed into slits as he looks up at Krem. 

“It’s called being your friend. This is how friends talk to each other. You’ve been around the Chargers.” Krem shrugs, playing with the thick leather band that holds up the brim on Cole’s hat. It’s fraying slightly, and Krem’s fingers rub against the weak parts where the leathers’ gone soft and thin. “Do you not want me to do that?” 

“I don’t mind. I like being your friend.” 

Krem opens his mouth, words dying before he manages to get out anything past “Well--” he ducks his head, looking at the crate near the blond mess that is Cole’s hair. “Okay. That’s…” He gives up and reaches into his pocket, thrusting out the offering into Cole’s general direction. 

There’s a moment where neither of them move. Krem’s heart is doing strange things in his chest. Beating too loudly until it drowns out the refrain of “Sera was Never” that echoes around the dim attic space. 

“It’s--kind of stupid but you like them and I had too many and no one else wanted anymore so I figured you might as well--”

Krem’s voice fades as soft hands gently unfurl Krem’s fist and release the prize inside. He swallows around a lump that’s decided to make it’s home in his throat.

“Oh,” Cole says, barely a breath. Krem only knows he’s spoken at all because the substance has killed him and he can just see Cole’s lips move in his peripheral vision. He doesn’t take his hands back, and Krem’s hover in this weird place of being cradled in Cole’s long fingers by virtue of still kind of holding onto the present. It’s one of the nugs that he made, in the week where Cole was the one being an idiot and not talking to him. Green button eyes and hide made out of the blue silk that used to be an old shirt of Krem’s before a sword made it unwearable. “You made this for me?” 

“I made it,” Krem hedges, “Didn’t really make it for anyone, but thought you might like to have it after it was done.” 

He feels Cole’s thumb stroking over the fabric (Under Krem’s palm). “You were very frustrated when you made this,” Cole says. 

“Oy, no looking into my head through the nug.” Krem huffs. He takes his hand back, and it raises to run through his hair in an awkward gesture. “You don’t have to accept it if you don’t want it.” 

“I want it.” 

“Then it’s all yours.” Krem feels his lips tilt up into a smile. He has to duck his head away again. Cole’s eyes are wide and blue and earnest and it hurts when Krem looks at them for too long now. 

“Thank you.” Cole says. 

“You don’t have to thank me. I had too many. Needed to get rid of them somehow and there aren’t any orphanages up here that I can pass them off to.” 

Krem studiously ignores the fact that he spent a good hour and a half picking exactly that nug to give to Cole out of all the toys littering the floor of his tent. It’s not an important fact at all.

“So--you gonna name him?” 

He watches Cole consider the toy. His hands smoothing down the soft silk, pressing gently at the button eyes. “Friend,” Cole says. “You wanted to be my friend when you made this. And now you’re giving it to me because we are.” 

“...Yeah.” Krem says. “That’s a good name.” 

“Caught in my chest, words I don’t know the meaning of…” Cole trails off. “No, saying it out loud won’t help.”

Krem has no idea what to say to that. 

“Could you teach me?” 

“What?”

Cole holds up the nug. “Could you teach me how to make things like this?” 

“Why’d you want to learn?”

“They help.” Cole answers. “I want to know how to help without knives or saying the things that no one was meant to see. You don’t have to fix everything at once.”

“I’ll bring up some fabric you can work on next time,” Krem says. “I can teach you how to knit as well if you want.” 

“I would like that.” Cole raises his head to smile sunnily at Krem, “Thank you.”

Krem’s heart never quite manages to get back into his chest for the rest of the day. 

 

* * *

 

“Kid what is that?” 

“What is what Varric?” 

“The... thing around your neck.”

“Oh. It’s a scarf. I made it.” 

“It is bright yellow.” 

“I like yellow, Cassandra. Spring flowers vibrant against the green as snow melts. Smiles at the end of winter. Everything is brighter now.”

“And where did you get the scarf?”

“I made it.”

“I did not know you could knit.” 

“Krem is teaching me.” 

“Perhaps next time he can teach you without using such a..distinctive shade.”

“We are trying to be sneaky here kid, hard to do that when you light up the countryside everywhere you go.” 

 

* * *

 

Usually Charger morning practice is early enough that it doesn’t get an audience. Sure there’s always a few people up at the crack of dawn anyway who could use some light entertainment--guards on patrols, cooks waiting for the kitchen, the other sorry bastards who have to train at the crack of dawn--but usually it’s just the Chargers being put through their paces either by Krem or Bull depending if the big lug is there or not. 

It’s a good thing too, since the practice that they do tends to be more mayhem than anything close to organised let alone regimented. Friendly fire is not, especially not when it came from the likes of Dalish and Rocky. 

Krem is in the middle of dodging under Bull’s axe, blocking Grim’s sword and striking blindly at whoever was on his left when Skinner hisses in his ear, “Your friend’s here.” 

“What friend?” They turn back to back, the better to fend off their attackers. Krem hates this training exercise. The aim is basically “pair up, attack everyone else” Grim picks the pairs, because he’s the only one who can be trusted not to completely stack the deck. It usually ends up being a melee by the end, every man for himself. But while it wasn’t there was some some effort at teamwork. Which was the important thing, Bull keeps reminding them. 

“The skinny blond one that you keep hanging around with.” 

“I have no idea what you’re--” 

Skinner spins him around, fending off the lightning strike headed towards the both of them and the arrows hidden inside it. Krem scans the edges of the training field for familiar faces. There’s no one there. Krem opens his mouth to say as much when he finds the flash of blond at the very edge of his vision. 

The moment it takes him to realise what that means costs him a blow to his side. Krem reels, rolling as he hits the ground and coming up swearing, the hand for his shield going up to nurse the wound that is definitely going to bruise if not worse. 

“What was that for?” 

“You weren’t paying attention,” Bull grunts. A grin spread across his face. “First rule of battle, don’t get fucking distracted.”

Krem grumbles, but drops into a defensive crouch. He’ll give Skinner shit later for distracting him. 

Except for the rest of the training Krem can’t help but try to spot Cole out of the corner of his eyes. There’s this constant awareness now that he might be being watched. It’s not unwelcome, or welcome either. It’s just--there. There and distracting in the worst ways when he’s trying to fend off attacks from most of the company. He keeps trying to check where Cole’s eyes are, but it’s almost impossible with Cole’s hat and hair. The best he can get is that the kid’s facing in the right direction. 

He ends up with a nasty scratch from one of Stitches’ knives. An attack that he could have easily blocked or dodged save for the fact he’d twisted to catch a glimpse of Cole for the tenth time in about as many minutes. Bull frowns at him and stops the exercise with a raise of his hand. 

“Krem what the fuck?” He says once everyone’s got the message and all the weapons are at rest if not put away. 

Krem opens his mouth, and then reconsiders. There’s no way he’s not going to get shit for being distracted because someone might be watching them. 

“It’s my fault,” comes the soft voice from behind him. 

Krem doesn’t whirl around but it’s a close thing. He thinks, as loudly as he can ‘PLEASE LIE’ while turning as slow as the rest of the Chargers to look at Cole. 

He watches Cole blink slowly, head tilting as if considering something. “I can’t tell you why.” 

That’s… better than the alternative. Krem takes what he can when communicating telepathically with a boy that doesn’t quite get how lying works at the best of times. Bull, damn him, gives a deep belly laugh. A rumbling thing that makes his entire body shake. 

“Sure you can’t,” He says amicably, “Well if you’re going to be a distraction to the Krem-puff you can be a useful one. You got your knives?” 

“Bull no,” Krem says. 

“Why not? You scared you’ll get your ass kicked?” 

“No.” 

It’s more that Krem’s never fought with Cole before, on the same side or out of it. Charger practice is closed for a reason, and that reason is that it gets very chaotic very quickly. Krem can’t count the number of accidental injuries he’s gotten from practice anymore. Cole looks fragile enough without pitting him against at least half of the Chargers. 

“I’ll be fine,” Cole says. He smiles at Krem, “Stop worrying.” 

It’s not that simple, but Krem keeps his grumbles inside his head. He nods at Bull in acquiescence of the fact it really isn’t his place to interfere here.  He’s Cole’s friend, not his mother. “If you want to,” he directs at Cole. 

“Everyone is always telling me I need more practice,” Cole says, “Poor boy, always following a marked madman into danger. Does he even know how to defend himself?” 

There’s the usual pause after Cole’s words. 

“Time to find out,” Bull says when it stretches out just a little too long. “Kid, you’re with me. No point pairing you up with someone you’re not going to need to rely on ever.” 

“Ah shit,” Rocky says. 

Krem wholeheartedly agrees with that. There’s a reason that Bull is by himself usually, and that reason is that even when he’s alone he can easily take every single one of them. He and Skinner shift back into their ready positions as Bull swings his axe from where it was slung around his shoulders. Cole ghosts across the training ground until he’s covering Bull’s blind side, two knives glittering in his hands. Dalish is next to Krem, and behind her Rocky and Stitches are muttering in low tones about strategy. Grim is by Skinner, silent as only Grim can be. 

“Well, what are you all waiting for?” Bull says, “Attack!”

Krem loses track of everyone’s positions in the chaos that follows. 

 

* * *

 

One minute, Krem is fending off an icicle strike from a particularly cackly Dalish, and the next there’s something sliding under his guard, steel glinting a warning. Krem reacts instinctively, stepping back and ducking as a knife stabs to where his head was just a few minutes previously. Another goes for his gut. Krem steps back to dodge, trying desperately to fend off the attack. 

Blue eyes, so close to his own that Krem flinches. His foot lands awkwardly in the dirt, twisted at an angle it can’t accept all of the weight Krem needs it to. He goes down, hard. Somewhere in the tangle he’s hooked an arm around Cole’s to get the dagger away from his face. When he lands on the dirt Cole goes with him. 

There’s a weight on Krem’s chest. His sword is on the ground next to him, dulled metal now covered in dust. His shield is still attached to his arm, if barely. He closes his eyes.

“Ow,” Krem says. 

“I’m sorry,” the weight says--Cole. Of course it’s Cole, Krem must have hit his head in the fall to forget that. “I didn’t mean to make you fall.”

“‘S fine,” Krem grunts. He pushes himself onto his elbows. Cole shuffles awkwardly, and Krem is suddenly very aware of the elbows bracketing his chest, the long legs tangled around his own. He swallows. “That’s what trainings for.” The rest of the sentence seems very distant. Cole’s face is very very close to his own and Krem---

Krem doesn’t know. 

“C’mon, get up. Can’t let anyone else have all the fun.” 

“Hm?” Cole blinks. His eyes, misty with something focus back to clarity. “Yes. You want things to be normal.”

Krem ignores that. He pushes Cole’s shoulders until the kid gets the idea and unfolds upwards. A pale hand reaches down to where Krem is lying. Krem grabs it and hauls himself up. 

(Cole’s eyes scrunch up and he hides a startled gasp behind a bite of his lips.)

“Ready?” Krem asks once he’s got his shield on his arm and sword back in his hand. Cole nods, and disappears. 

The don’t engage each other in combat for the rest of the practice.

 

* * *

 

“Dorian.”

“Yes Cole?”

“You said I could ask you questions.”

“I did. What is it you want to know now?”

“You-- tied, trapped and pulled taught. Smile breaking through a mask you keep forgetting you wear. Wanting every minute of it. Under broad hands that wipe away the hurt that you don’t let anyone else see.”

“That isn’t a question.”

“No. I don’t understand.” 

“Don’t understand what?”

“How did he change your mind?” 

“...Ah.” 

“You wanted so badly to not care. But then you changed your mind. How?”

“That’s a very large question, Cole.”

“Yes.”

“How about we talk more about this later. In private.”

“Will you draw diagrams again?”

“Since you like them so much, I will endeavour to include as many diagrams as you could ever desire.”

 

* * *

 

Adamant. That’s what they’ve all been preparing for. What all the extra training with the Chargers has been leading up to. They’re going to be in the main force--a tiny group of skirmishers threaded through Cullen’s army. 

Bull, and the rest of the Inquisitor’s inner circle are going to be even more heavily in the action. If that were possible. They’re going ahead of everyone else, to get some sort of advantage on the keep and to help set up whatever insane plan the Inquisitor’s been keeping in their head that means they’ll win this. 

It’s early morning when Krem hauls himself out of his bedroll and heads to the stables. Bull is already there, saddling up the black warhorse that at this point belongs to him more than the Inquisition. Krem nods to him, but doesn’t walk towards him. 

Instead his feet carry him to the edge of the stable, towards a grey horse, and the boy feeding it apples from his hands. 

“Hello Cole.” Krem says. He leans against the stable door. 

Cole twists, head looking over his shoulder to stare at Krem. “Hello. You’re worried about me again.” 

Krem shrugs. His heart is doing flips into his stomach. “We are going into a battle. One we’re not likely to win.” 

“We’ll win.” Cole walks towards Krem, slowly, with a trip to his gait that Krem can’t quite figure out the meaning for. 

“You can tell the future as well as what’s inside my head now?” 

“No.” He’s close enough now that Krem could reach out and touch him. That same distance that Cole always ends up, just inside Krem’s personal space for it to be just a little on the edge of uncomfortable. That degree of space that Krem had desperately missed when they had been avoiding each other. 

“Shame.” Krem’s bottom lip traps itself in his teeth. He can’t work out where all his witty remarks have gone. Cole’s lips are very pink against the paleness of this skin.

“Why are you here, Krem?”

Cole’s hair fall into his eyes when he looks down at Krem. He’s noticed it before but now Krem keeps thinking about brushing back that blond fringe and tucking it to lie around Cole’s face. 

“Krem?”

“Send you off!” Krem says, rushed and too loud for this still, private moment. “Just in case, y’know? Thought I’d make sure you hadn’t done anything stupid and forgotten your hat.” 

“I have my hat.” Cole says, bemused by the tilt of his head and tone of his voice. “I haven’t forgotten anything.” 

He’s wearing the scarf Krem helped him knit. Bright yellow wool that Cole had picked out, as soft as Krem could find. He’d spent far too long, on far too many late nights patiently teaching Cole how to make it perfect. It’s falling off Cole’s shoulders. Kid never did get past draping it around his neck and hoping for the best. 

“Here,” Krem says, and his hands reach up before he can think better of it. The long ends of the scarf get tucked tight together, to fall down Cole’s chest. He doesn’t let go when he’s finished. Instead looking up and getting caught in wide, wondering and--oh. 

Oh Maker. 

Krem’s hands fall from Cole’s chest. He tucks them in his pockets and looks down at the floor. “Well--don’t die.” 

“I won’t.” Cole says, just on the edge of Krem’s hearing. 

“I should--” Krem shrugs, awkward as his heart picks up for no reason at all. He’s sure that he’s blushing and hates it. 

“Yes.” Cole says. “Don’t die.” 

“I won’t.” 

And Krem leaves as fast as his feet can carry him. 

 

* * *

 

Somewhere between Adamant and Skyhold, Cole unwraps the fabric around his hand, and stares down at black ink. 

Horns stretched across the back of it, and below the strong, dark lines that make up a name. 

Cole smiles. 


	9. Chapter 9

Nightmare: You're not one thing or the other, are you Cole. Old fear mingling with the new until.the edges blur and you can't tell where one ends and begins. 

Cole: You don't frighten me. 

Nightmare: No, I don’t. But other things do. I can help, Cole. I only ever want to help. Just like you. We aren’t so different you and I.

Cole: We are not the same. 

Nightmare: Oh but we are. You’re afraid he’ll be angry when he finds out that’s true aren’t you? 

Cole: Stop it. 

Nightmare. The name on your wrist. You’re scared what will happen when he finds out he lo--

Cole: I told you to stop!

 

It isn’t until after Adamant that Krem starts really thinking about it. Before then there’s too much worry about the fact that they’ve decided to take down a keep that is notorious for not being able to take down. And that this is the best option they have. Krem may be a Charger, with all the lack of self preservation that comes with that title, but even for him this is insane. 

And then they win. There’s a fucking dragon and bridges collapsing and the terrible, awful hours where the Inquisitor is dead (Bull is dead, Varric is dead, Cole is dead, and there aren’t even any bodies to bury because the fade has taken those too) and all they can do is try and pick up the pieces before the sky opens and the herald of Andraste proves why they’re called that in the first place. 

They win. 

Krem still isn’t really sure about how that happened. Fucking mages. 

After Adamant, when they’re heading back to Skyhold (Late because the Chargers volunteered to take out the few demons still causing mayhem in the area), there’s nothing to distract Krem. 

All the things he’s been avoiding come back with a vengeance. The way Cole is warm when Krem leans against him, and handsome under his hat and awful ragged clothes. The undeniable fact that there's always been attraction there and it’s only gotten worse with time. An abstract that became a daydream that became… 

He'd almost kissed Cole, in the stable just before they'd left. The only thing stopping him being cowardice and the fact that Bull was just around the corner and almost certainly listening to every word said. Krem is already waiting for the teasing he’s going to get once he gets back to Skyhold. 

What would Cole taste like? He can’t stop himself wondering it, and then hate and guilt taking over as soon as he does. Old Tevinter bullshittery taking over his head--for liking a boy; for falling into the traps of soulmates which everyone knows are mistakes and the sign that the Maker no longer loves us; for wanting Cole who is more a kid than a man for all that he’s taller and broader than Krem. 

He closes his eyes, and breathes. What he thinks is wrong. Isn’t that what everyone keeps telling him? 

Even with the doubt, and guilt, it doesn’t change the fact that he wants to kiss Cole. He wants to know what Cole feels like under his hands and what he sounds like when pleasure overtakes him. And he wants to know how Cole will smile when Krem takes hold of his hand, or curls into him when they sit next to each other, or wraps the man in a hug. Soulmarks be damned, Cole being  immature and a little naive be damned, what everyone will say be damned, Krem wants it. 

So he’s going to have to do something about it isn’t he? 

Shit. 

 

When the Chargers get back to Skyhold, they’re all gifted rooms. Krem doesn’t look too closely at that. A lot of people were lost at the keep. It’s easier to just be grateful that he's got a roof over his head for the first time in several months. He even has a real bed. With real sheets. Krem’s not sure he’s ever had a real bed with real sheets before. 

Cole’s sitting on his bed when Krem first steps into the room. Cross legged on the narrow mattress, staring at Krem or in his general direction with a hunted expression. 

“What’s wrong?” Krem closes the door behind him. It swings shut with a dull click. 

For a moment Cole just looks at him, lip caught between his teeth and left hand hovering at his breastbone.

Any good feeling that Krem still had for finally being home, for finally not being on a fucking horse for the first time in days vanishes. Even the flutter in his stomach from seeing Cole doesn’t get rid of the feeling of foreboding. 

“Cole?”

“I need your help.” Cole says slowly. His eyes focus more clearly on Krem, and he has to hide the sudden shiver at the weight of that stare on him. 

“Sure. Anything, what’s the problem?”

Cole’s eyes drop away from Krem, his face shrouded in the shadow of the brim of his hat. He doesn’t answer for long enough that Krem starts to wonder if he missed the request. 

“You’re going to have to speak up,” he says, “If you said anything at all. What’s wrong?”

His eyes are so blue. Light reflects off of unshed tears. “I need you to bind me.” 

Krem blinks. He freezes in the motion of going to Cole’s side. “Bind you,” he repeats. A slow, dark horror uncurls in his stomach. Please, oh please let him be wrong, “And what do you mean by that exactly?”

Cole hesitates, before the words trip out, “Bindings with blood telling me what to be. I need to be made safe”

“You are safe.” Krem says, much calmer than he feels. Oh why couldn’t he have been wrong?

“I won’t be if you don’t help me. They change people. The mages. Capture, corrupt and make them want to hurt what they love. I can’t be that again. You need to tell me what shape to stay in. I’ve already asked--”

“Why do you think I’ll agree to enslave you?” Krem interrupts. “Is this because I’m a ‘vint?” The horror turns to appalled anger. Hot in the pit of his stomach and rising up his spine until he stands ramrod straight. 

Cole looks up again, confusion clear in the slant of his mouth. “I didn’t ask you to enslave me.”

“No, you asked me to bind you. Which is even worse.” Krem crosses his arms, and steps towards the bed before deciding better of it. “What? Were you counting on the fact that I’m just a stupid soldier and wouldn’t know what that word meant? Sorry, but that’s what they do to bad little girls and boys where I come from. They turn them into empty little vessels that can’t even eat unless their master tells them to do it.”

Cole’s mouth twists, “That’s not what I asked you to do either.”

“Then what is?” Krem snaps, “Go on. What exactly is this master plan that makes you think blood magic is such a reasonable plan?”

There’s a mutter. 

“What was that?” 

“If you don’t tell me to keep this shape someone else will make me take a different one.” Cole says. “I can’t let that happen.” His voice cracks horribly in the middle. “I won’t be a demon again I can’t--Krem they’ll make me hurt you!”

“You’re not a demon!” 

“Yes! I’m not.” Understanding. Hope shining bright in the shadowed features. “I’m not but the mages cast spells that twist spirits into other shapes. I like this shape. I don’t--Krem please.”

“No. I’m not going to be part of a fucking blood magic ritual just because you’re scared of something that might not even happen.” 

“They’ll make me hurt you.” 

“What, so you think that I’ll hurt you? Turn you into an object just because you’ve convinced yourself it’s a good idea? And who were you planning on asking to do the ritual in the first place?” 

He’s angry. So angry he’s shaking from it. He closes his eyes, breathes to get some semblance of calm. It doesn’t work. He opens his eyes again and--

Krem swallows around the sudden lump in his throat and takes in the slumped shoulders, the way Cole’s lip is caught between his teeth and his hand is fisted in the sheets of the bed hard enough the knuckles are white. Light catches on the tear tracks running down Cole’s face. 

The anger falls away. Leaving only numbness in it’s wake. 

“Fuck you really want this don’t you. You knew it was a long shot for me to agree and you asked anyway.” Krem says softly. He steps forward and drops to his knees in front of Cole, hands reaching up to cradle the kid’s face. “Who else did you ask?” 

“Solas,” Cole says. He leans into Krem’s touch and his eyes close. “He yelled at me. And a mage that thinks about red and knives and the basements of the circle where even the Templars didn’t patrol if they couldn’t help it.” 

“Don’t go near that mage again,” Krem orders, making a note to go find whoever this is and at the very least make sure they never go near Cole again. “Take it they’re the one that agreed to do the ritual?”

A nod. A slow exhalation of breath. 

“There has to be some way of doing this without enslaving you,” Krem says. He slumps, “Why did you even come to me in the first place? I’m not a mage, and you could have dipped into my head to see what I’d think of this whenever you wanted.” 

“It doesn’t work like that.” Cole argues. He nuzzles against Krem’s hands. “You love me.”

Krem’s breath stops in his chest. “What?” 

Cole’s eyes open. Impossible blue and guileless even as they rip Krem into pieces. “You love me. So I can trust you with my shape.” 

His mouth opens, but no words come out. His hands drop away. Cole makes a soft noise of protest as Krem’s hands curls into a fist.  “You know most people say that you love them,” He says finally. There’s a sick, hollow feeling in the middle of his chest. What happens when shock meets outrage. “Maker I can’t hide a fucking thing from you can I?”

A flickering gaze taking him in. “You’re upset. Not because you think I’m wrong but because I know at all...Wanted to woo, plans and preparations daydreams as we rode home, wanted to tell him… Krem you did tell me!”

“I wanted to do it without you finding it in my head.” Krem corrects. He looks down at the floor and swallows. He’d wanted to do it when he was sure if that was even what was happening. He’d had suspicions, but honestly what else could it have been when Cole was his soulmate. It had to be love of some sort and only the sickest of freaks would want to do what Krem has been daydreaming about to a brother. 

Added to that the faint feeling of betrayal. Of missing something important but Krem can’t work out what. 

“I didn’t find it in your head.” Confusion. Obvious and Cole’s hand reaches out. Krem flinches away. 

“Sure you didn’t.” 

“No. I didn’t--Krem please look at me.” 

He does. Almost against his will. Immediately, Krem is trapped in blue and his gaze flickers to Cole’s lips as he wonders again what they would taste like--This is not the fucking time, Aclassi, he chides at himself, forcing his gaze back up. 

Cole sighs softly. And his hand reaches out again. This time Krem doesn’t flinch when it rests on the back of his neck. “This is how I know.” he says. “You’re always thinking about kissing me.” 

Did his eyes get bigger or is he moving closer? Krem genuinely can’t tell.

“Think that counts as finding out from my head,” he says. His voice sounds too loud for the heavy air that has enveloped the both of them. Krem isn’t quite sure when that happened either. 

“Not when it’s your eyes that are telling me.” 

He feels the breath of the words against his lips, and then Cole is kissing him.

Maker his lips are soft, is all Krem can think as they press against his own. It’s uncoordinated, clearly obvious that Cole doesn’t know how kissing works past smushing faces together. It’s a small wonder that their noses don’t collide. Against Krem’s back all along the black lines of his mark there’s a low thrumming that sings, yes, yes this is right and good and everything that he needs and wants and--

Krem doesn’t realise he hasn’t moved until Cole draws back and looks at him with confused, hurt eyes. 

“Did I do that wrong?” 

“Um.” Krem blinks. Then blinks again. “Um.” His brain starts working. “No. No you didn’t I was just--why did you kiss me?” 

“I wanted to.” Cole says. “I love you.” 

Oh. 

A weight that Krem didn’t know he was carrying falls off his shoulders. And he slumps, forwards into Cole’s stomach and just breathes. 

“You are impossible,” he says against the rough fabric. 

“I know.” Cole says. “Dark rooms and frightened thoughts and a want to just not have to die alone… And then just the want of being seen. I didn’t like then.” 

His body quivers against Krem. 

“And you’re worried that’s what will happen if the Venatori do magic on you.” Krem says. The anger comes back then. But it’s dulled now. He can think through the outrage. “And you thought I would help you because I love you. Cole what kind of person did you think I was that I’d agree to torture you because I loved you?” 

“One who would understand.” Cole’s head shakes. “I’m sorry. Forget I asked.” 

“That doesn’t work on me,” Krem reminds softly. He gets up off the floor and tugs Cole into a hug. “And you shouldn’t just make me forget something if it makes me mad. I have to know some things. For one I have to make sure you’re not going to do something stupid and hurt yourself.”

Krem doesn’t address the first part. Save for opening his head enough to show that he does understand. He knows what happens when people get scared enough to start considering options that they wouldn’t before. And he shows that some options are never the answer. No matter what. 

Felicia had been his friend before the slavers took her… After he’d seen her with dead eyes and a bland smile as she followed a magister known for doing things that no one would talk about in public. Krem refused to ever be a part in something that had done that. 

“Come on, there’s got to be some other way to fix this.” 

“Possibly,” Cole concedes. 

Krem reaches out and pulls Cole off of the bed. “If there’s nothing there we’ll find some other way for you to help that means you don’t have to be near the Venatori again. Healing or something.” 

“Will that work?”

“No idea. But it’s a better plan than yours.” 

Their hands tangle together, fingers intertwining. Cole makes an odd little sound when Krem’s thumb brushes the back of his left hand. Something slots into Krem’s chest. He knows he’s going to have to talk about this, properly, later. It’s not even cowardly. Cole needs help, Krem is getting help. Anything he wants to do can wait. 

Anyway he had wanted to do more wooing before making anything official. He’s romantic like that. 

“Right. Mage towers most likely to have something. Let’s go find out.” 

“Thank you,” Cole says. And the unnamed something in Krem’s chest grows even larger. 

 

* * *

 

 

The way to fix Cole turns out to be an amulet that takes a week to get to Skyhold, and then has the audacity to not even work. Krem seethes, privately when Cole updates him on it, useless amulet pinned carefully to his shirt. 

Judging by the way Cole leans into him it isn't very private. 

“It’s confused,” Cole explains. “The same way your mark is.” 

“Because you’re not human?” 

“I’m not one or the other.” Cole rests his head on Krems shoulder. “Varric and Solas are going with the Inquisitor and me to see if it can be made right.” 

Krem eyes him warily, “Going where?” He swears if it’s an ancient elven temple he'll eat his yarn. 

“Redcliffe.”

Well, at least that means that the likelihood weird magic is involved isn’t so high.

“We’re going tomorrow,” Cole says. “Can you come with us?”

His hand curls around Krem’s own. A slow, careful thing like he’s afraid Krem’s going to turn into dust. Krem’s throat goes dry. He squeezes Cole’s hand, in what is meant to be a comforting gesture, but he’s not sure he manages it.

A week and he still hasn’t done anything. Neither had the conversation he needs to nor started courting. At this point he can only blame cowardice. Maker, starting before the amulet got here would have at least gotten Cole’s mind off the whole thing.  

“Sure, of course,” he says. “When are you setting off?”

His other hand makes it to the nape of Coles neck. Another comforting gesture but this one is mostly for himself. Selfish, but he needs it if he's ever going to keep a level head. 

If this doesn't work… Krem swallows around a lump in his throat, and the curl of horror that hasn't gone away since Cole asked for the ritual. If this doesn't work then Krems going to have a lover (If that’s even what Cole wants to be) that believes he should be a puppet. 

“It would be safer” Cole says.

“You're not meant to be in my head you know” Krem murmurs.

“You think loudly.” Cole burrows into his shoulder. “Are you going to tell?”

“Tell what? That you're insane and want to be made brainless so you don't accidentally hurt anyone?”

“No.” Cole pauses. And when he speaks again the words are distant, like he's reading something from far away “Warmth in my chest. Maker his lips are so soft. Scared uncertainty, I don't know what I'm meant to do but I have to try. I want him to be mine.”

Krem frowns down at the blond head. “Didn't get that” 

“Lovers,” Cole says, “are you going to tell?”

“Oh.”

“You haven’t. You think about it until the want and doubt switch sides and you can't work out if you're doing what you should.”

“You're a kid.” Krem says. Answering the question sideways

“I'm not.” Blue eyes look up to stare at Krem earnestly. “I'm not or I wouldn't have your mark. Blackwall says that if you're old enough to fight you're old enough to do… other things. He wouldn't tell me but I heard what he wanted to say.” 

“That's a whole other conversation.” Krem decides once his brain starts working again. “I want to tell. Bull at least and the Chargers but people gossip and I'd rather not have some… well meaning person deciding I've corrupted you. I'm already a Vint and you are a kid in a lot of ways. This most of all.” 

He steals a kiss. Just a short one. Barely more than a press of lips against Cole's mouth. Cole makes an appreciative hum. His eyes are wide when Krem retreats to a safe distance. It’s the hum that takes away the lingering doubt that this is wrong. Cole wants this too. Even if he hasn’t gone and said it in so many words.  

“Maker I've already gone around this backwards as it is. At least let me court you before the entire keep gets to use us as entertainment? I don’t even know if this what you want half the time still.”

“I want it,” Cole says. “Is that what you’re doing? Courting me?”

“Haven’t really started yet.” Krem’s nose wrinkles. “Been a bit busy getting this sorted and the rest of what the Inquisition needs of me.” He frowns in thought, wondering. It’s probably not the best time but seriously when is when the world might be ending because of a mad magister that thinks he’s met the maker. “How about, after Redcliffe I take you out somewhere.”

“Where is somewhere?” 

“Haven’t decided yet,” What to get for the man that prefers helping other people than spending any time on himself? The other reason Krem hasn’t started courting: He has no fucking clue on how to go about it. 

“I would like that,” Cole decides. “Kiss me again?” 

Well, maybe it’s alright that he’s dating (trying to date) the most difficult person in the world, when they ask him questions like that. 

“Well I can’t say no when you ask so nicely can I?”

Neither of them find a need to talk for awhile after that. 

 

* * *

 

 

The ride to Redcliffe is both sunny and tense for about three different reasons. The first, most important one being that no is sure that this is going to work. Least of all Krem, but the fact that Solas is just as much in the dark is disconcerting. 

Solas is meant to  _ know _ about creepy magicky stuff like how to stop a boy that is maybe half spirit or more from being brain washed. He’s not meant to be making guesses and hoping for the best. That’s Krem’s job. Or at least Varric’s, who looks as equally happy about the lack of understanding.

Only the Inquisitor looks like they know what’s going on, and well. That’s the Inquisitor for you.

Then of course there’s the fact that Krem isn’t meant to be here but is and he’s not going to back down without a fight about his place. Not when Cole is fidgeting with the belts on Krem’s armour. 

He probably doesn’t need to be in the armour, but better safe than sorry at this point. Redcliffe was the home of the mage rebellion until very recently. Who knows who decided to hang around after they were welcome?

Solas keeps glancing at Krem like he’s swallowed a lemon. Or a particularly bony piece of fish. Krem glares back, daring him to say anything about it. Bastard. At least Varric keeps his glances to shady little smiles and secretive smirks. (Andraste, now he’s thinking like Cole when did that happen?) Krem is sure he knows something. But what exactly that something is Krem has no clue. Hopefully not everything. That would just be embarrassing. It’s probably everything. Oh Maker it definitely is and Krem’s going to find himself in a ditch without his breeches on because he’s gone about this terribly and everyone knows that Cole is basically Varric’s baby--

“Stop worrying,” Cole murmurs.

Krem closes his eyes, and tries to breathe. At least once they get to Redcliffe they can start to fix whatever’s wrong with the amulet. 

Which is of course, when it all goes to shit. 

“You. You killed me!”

Before Krem can think to move, Cole has the man on the ground, and a knife to his throat. He moved faster than Krem could blink. Like he moved through the fade, like Dalish does when she gets cornered. Great, more spirit stuff that acts exactly like magic. Why did Krem agree to come again? 

“You forgot! You locked me in the dungeon in the spire and you forgot and I died in the dark!”

“Shit,” Krem breathes. His soulmates a mage after all. Fantastic. A mage who’s going to kill a man who probably deserves it in cold blood if someone doesn’t stop him. 

Solas gets there first, with the same magic blink. “Cole, stop.” 

The man makes a run for it. Krem watches him go, half tracking his form in case they need to go find him later. 

Behind his back Cole says a lot of things that make Krem sick to think about. Just a scared little kid. Alone, in the dark. Not knowing when or if anyone will come and find you. Hunger clawing at your belly until eventually...nothing. Or in the case of Cole, for a spirit to take your body over and forget that it even was a spirit to begin with. 

“He killed me and I need to kill him back!” Cole exclaims. He storms off. Krem watches him till he reaches the other side of the fountain, where he stops abruptly and buries his hands into his chest. Like he’s been shot. 

“I agree with Cole.” Krem says. Still watching his soulmate and trying to work out the expression he’s wearing now that the hat covers his entire face. “We should fucking kill him.” 

“I don’t think anyone’s really saying we should kill him,” Varric says with a low murmur. 

“Why not? He killed a fucking kid.” 

Varric closes his eyes. His head shakes with an unspoken, heavy emotion. 

“You would pervert him from what he is.” Solas says. He glares at Krem. Even in peripheral vision it’s strong enough to make paint thin. “A spirit cannot take revenge.”

“Cole isn't a spirit.” Krem snaps. 

“He is confused,” Solas says. He turns to the Inquisitor, disregarding Krem entirely. Krem grimaces, seething with outrage. 

“Fine. Disregard everything Cole’s said and do what you think is best for him. ‘Cause that’s obviously going to fix everything.” He gives the group one last sharp look before he goes to the person he should be talking to about this. That they all should be talking to about this. 

“Hey,” Krem says, once he’s close enough and quiet enough that the idiots probably can’t hear him. “Hey are you okay?”

Cole recoils when Krem reaches out to touch his shoulder. The hand drops back to Krem’s side. “I’ll take that as a no then,” He says. 

“I don’t know what to do.” Cole says. He looks at Krem with terrified eyes, lip bitten almost bloody already from his teeth. “I don’t--I can’t. He killed me!”

“I heard. He shouldn’t have done that.” Krem frowns, shifting his weight, “Do you really think that killing him will fix the amulet?” 

“Hurt etching into nails made bloody. Dark swallowing me up whole. Eye for an eye, he holds the pain of what he did so neither of us can forget.” 

“And killing him will stop that.” 

A short, jerking nod. “Please.” 

“They’re choosing for you.” Krem indicates to the side, where Varric is waving his hands as the Inquisitor looks between him and Solas. “If you want we can go and kill him now or we can wait till we see what they think.” 

A gaze that is entirely too blue for it’s own good. “You don’t want me to kill him either.” 

“I think that this is a little different from the people you kill when you go out with the Inquisitor,” Krem hedges, “It’s more personal than that and, trust me that makes it harder to live with yourself after. Especially when they aren’t trying to kill you back.” 

“But it hurts.” Cole says.  

Krem takes in the shuddering. Cole’s hand twisted over his heart. “Yeah. It does.” 

Cole reaches out, and clings to Krem. He can barely feel it through the armour, but he can feel the wet of Cole’s tear stained cheek against his forehead. 

“Can’t ever go home again. Not after what I’ve done, what I’ve become. Allied with a monster, lied to my country. Killed my--” 

“That’s my head,” Krem says. Mostly into roughspun cotton. “Might be best if you stay in your own right now.” 

“Mine hurts. Yours isn’t sharp. Or empty, or hollow.” 

Krem makes a concerted effort to think of soft things. Like nugs, and fabric, and Bull when he’s in a good mood, and Skinner whenever she’s found a group of kids that need mothering. Against him Cole’s shivering eases just a touch. 

“Thank you.”

“No problem.” Krem murmurs. “What do you want to do Cole? Who are we trusting?”

“You.” The immediate answer. 

Krem sighs a little. But he can’t help the smile. “Okay, other than me then. Do you want to kill him or not? Do you want to do whatever someone else says? Who might have a better idea what’s going on than you?”

Silence. Cole’s cheek rubbing against the shaved part of Krem’s head. “The Inquisitor.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. They know about difficult choices. They wouldn’t mean to hurt me.”

“Inquisitor it is then.” 

Krem glances at the group, to find them trying not to look at him and Cole and failing miserably. The discussion of before has dulled into what looks at least a little like an agreement has been found.”

“C’mon then let's see what the experts think you should do.”

“What if they're wrong?” 

A jerking nod. “Will you still love me?” 

Krems heart skips a beat. It's not fair, the casual way Cole just says it.

“What makes you think I'll stop?”

Silence. Cole shrugs, shaking his head. His lip is back between his teeth. 

“Well.” Krem says, and he hugs Cole tighter. “Whatever it is you think you see is wrong. No matter what happens I’m going to go right on loving you.” He’s absurdly proud he doesn’t choke on the word. “Your name’s on my back. Well at least part of it is. Obviously I should stop telling the universe that it doesn’t have any business in my private life considering that it’s given me you.” 

He reaches up, and kisses Cole. Soft, trying to wordlessly say all the things he would have if they had managed to talk about this properly. That this is real, and Krem isn’t going to go away. He’s done with running and he’s done with not chasing after Cole when he does the same. He’s here. He loves Cole. They have to at least try and make this work, if Cole wants.

The kiss is short, because they are being watched and he tries to keep it chaste. Well, short and chaste until Cole makes a broken, helpless little sound and tils his head like Krem showed him after they did bump noses and--oh.  

When they seperate Krem is half breathless, and he’s forgotten every other point except the last one. “I’m going to court you. When all this is over and there’s not a madman trying to blow up the world. If--If that’s what you want. You don’t need to be scared of me not loving you I don’t think I can. Even if I did want to which I don’t.” 

“The Nightmare said you'd stop. When you found out.”

“I've found out.” Krem says, “still love you.” and there again, is the stutter in his chest. 

The last amount of tension drains out of Cole. “Thank you,” he breathes. 

“No problem. Time to see what they've decided, yeah?”

A nod. 

And then Varric takes a hold of Cole's shoulder and leads him away. The Inquisitor following behind.  

Leaving Krem with Solas, who eyes him suspiciously and with great contempt but doesn't say a word. Thank the Maker for small mercies. 

There's a pain in his back. Along the right side, where the ruined lines of his name are. Krem ignores it. 

 

* * *

 

 

“So that's him?” Varric asks. 

“Yes.” 

Varrics hand lands on Cole’s back. “I'm happy for you kid.”

“Alright.”

A laugh, “Yeah I guess this isn't the best time to hunt for details.”, A glance upwards “you okay?”

“I will be.”

It still hurts. After. But it's meant to and that means it’s aright. The amulet won't work but that's alright too. 

Varric hugs him. And understands what the pain in Coles stomach means. Both the physical and the one that's only on Cole's head

He's human. Properly. Now Cole has to work out what that means. 

 

* * *

 

 

Two days after Redcliffe, Dalish spins Krem around in the springs so she can have a look at his back. 

“Dalish what the fuck?” Krem splutters. There's the press of fingers against the bottom of his ribcage.

“When did this happen?” Dalish asks.

“When did what happen?”

“Your name! It's not-- you mean you didn't notice? How did you not notice?”

“Notice what?” He twists, trying to get a glance at whatever it is has caught Dalish's attention. “I thought these weren't meant to change after the name got marked in.”

“Names change,” Bull rumbles. “Mark has to show that.” He makes his way to Krems back and whistles lowly. “Nice.”

“What's nice? Bull what’s it done now?”

“Nothing.” Dalish smooths her hand against Krems back one last time before her hand falls away. “I'm glad things worked out for you.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Sure.” 

The rest of the Chargers take turns to gawk at his back. Krem twists and turns but he never quite manages to see what they're all staring at. The worst part about Krems mark is the fact that without a mirror, he has no clue what it's doing. That used to be okay when he was ignoring and denying it’s existence. Now it’s just annoying. 

“No come on, tell me.”

Eventually Rocky takes pity on him, and hands him a shaving mirror. Unbidden, a grin stretches all the way across Krems face. 

“Huh,” he says, “finally decided to make its mind up.” He turns, and promptly dunks the still staring Dalish into the water. 

 

* * *

 

 

Being human is hard. It's loud, and busy, and sometimes far sharper than it needs to be. Cole can't hide anymore and the people notice him more now, when he can't make them forget that they have seen him before. 

It is hard. And no one understands. Cole is the first person in a very long time to be born like this. The world has forgotten what shapes to make around him. What song is meant to be sung.  

It's alright. It has to be; he can't go back to before. Time travel is only ever possible with an amulet and a breach. Cole has neither. 

He has something better. Something that makes the world softer without needing to change it entirely. Friends are very important to being human and keeping the sharp parts of the world away from where they can hurt. 

Varrics stories, read by Cassandra. Dorian helping him to understand. Bull feeding him food with too many spices in it. Bull feeding him food with just the right amount of spices in it. The Inquisitor who listens. Solas who explains how things used to be. (It's meant to be a secret. Cole doesn't understand why.) Even Sera, who does not like him, sits down and teaches Cole about the types of bodies she likes and gives him far more information than he thinks he will ever use. 

And Krem, who kisses him when Cole comes to his room when the stars are the only things awake. And who makes the dark, hiding piece in Coles chest and hand click back into brightness. 

Cole's favourite part of being human is wrapping himself around Krem, blankets over the both of them and simply learning how to exist when there isn't anyone to help except himself. 

That part is hard. But Cole is learning.

Sometimes Krem is shirtless, lying on his chest and Cole traces black ink swirls of the wings (his wings) as they swoop over Krem’s ribcage. And the shape of his name no longer a blotted mess but clear, strong lines over Krem’s heart. Krem makes murmuring sounds, and the shapes of his head go clear like light through a crystal glass. The same way that Cole’s does when Krem traces the horns and business-like scrawl of Cremisius on the back of Cole’s hand. 

Those times help Cole learn how to be real more than any other.  

“Hey you,” a smile. Kind brown eyes that look at Cole like he might be all the world. 

“Hello,” Cole says. A crooked smile back.  

In that moment, where the sky is blue, and Cole can feel sunlight and wind on his skin. And Krem solid and soothing and steady when Cole --wraps him in his arms. When the world is still and only contains the two of them. Cole closes the distance and kisses Krem, left hand going to press against the black lines of his name inked against Krem’s back and-- in that moment being human isn't so difficult. 

  
  
_ Owari _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. It's done. Sorry about the lateness. I don't even have a decent excuse. But yeah. I did it. Pending an epilogue depending on everything. 
> 
> Thank you, everyone. For commenting and kudosing and helping me continue even when I was sure I was the only one shipping these two (I knew I was the only writer. Rarepairs are a lonely existence friends). I hope you like it. Thank you. So much for all your support. 
> 
> Especially to Witchpuppy. Who had to deal with all my rambling and screaming at 2am when once again the fic decided to go outside of it's outline. He deserves a huge hug. As I don't think I could have done this without him cheering me on and looking over my shoulder for all the grammatical errors that inevitably happen.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to see/request more my writing tumblr is [Here](http://bandit-writes.tumblr.com/) and my main is [Here](http://thedragonbandit.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Now Betaed by [witchpuppy](http://witchpuppy.tumblr.com/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC WIP] Knock Your Heart Out of Sync](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7145660) by [DragonBandit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonBandit/pseuds/DragonBandit), [Skyorin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyorin/pseuds/Skyorin)




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